


i need a forest fire

by tomorrowsrain



Series: gale song [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Character Study, Deaf Clint Barton, Developing Friendship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fix-It, Fugitives, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Jewish Bucky Barnes, M/M, On the Run, Past Brainwashing, Past Torture, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reconciliation, Recovery, Road Trip, Talking, some humor hopefully
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-06-08 09:26:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 65,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6848857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomorrowsrain/pseuds/tomorrowsrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The past beats inside me like a second heart. These fragments I have shored against my ruins."</p><p>In which Tony Stark makes a reckless decision, becomes a wanted fugitive, goes on the run with the former Winter Soldier, and learns how to forgive. For his part, Bucky Barnes is just trying to hold himself together. AU, post-Civil War.</p><p>(sequel of sorts to après nous le déluge, but can be read alone)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted Bucky and Tony to TALK to each other and somehow this happened. Essentially, I still have a lot of feelings. 
> 
> This is a sequel of sorts to "après nous le deluge", but can be read on its own. Just know that this ignores the mid-credits scene of Bucky and Steve in Wakanda. Instead, Bucky and Steve went on the run together. 
> 
> This is also ignores (as most of us do), the whole "Clint has a random family and Natasha's suddenly in love with Bruce" mess of AoU. Also, deaf!Clint because he's awesome and I can. 
> 
> The beginning two lines of the story summary are quotes. The first is from the novel "The Sea" by John Bainville and the second the poem "The Waste Land" by T.S. Eliot. Title is from the song "I Need a Forest Fire" by James Blake. 
> 
> The working title for this document was literally "Tony and Bucky's Epic Road Trip." 
> 
> Enjoy! 
> 
> \- C x

“The day misspent,

the love misplaced,

has inside it

the seed of redemption.

Nothing is exempt

From resurrection.” – **Kay Ryan**

________________

**Excerpt** **from the journals of James Barnes, 2017:**

_The first thing I remembered was you. Don’t think I’ve ever told you that. It took nearly a year for the names of my parents and sisters to come back, but I remembered you. From the moment I met you to the fall from the train. Start to finish. Beginning to end. You were there in brilliant colour—like oil on canvas, perfectly preserved._

_And I loved you. I knew that, too. I didn’t remember anything about Bucky Barnes except that he loved Steve Rogers with every damn beat of his bloodstained heart. You were air. Remembering you was like learning how to breathe again—oxygen finally cycling properly through my lungs after a lifetime of vacuum._

_This was the mistake Hydra made: they thought they could erase you. But you are carved into my bones and saturated in my blood. To erase you, they would have had to cut me up into pieces so tiny they would have never fit back together whole again._

_They damn well tried, but it wasn’t enough._

_Because I knew you the second I saw you. I didn’t know who you were yet, but I **knew** you. And for an instant, before they sunk me back under, I loved you. _

_They thought they could use me to kill you. Fucking idiots. I’d endure their torture, the fall, the wars, all that fucking blood, a million lives and a million deaths, before I ever ended yours._

_They sent me to kill you and doomed themselves._

_And I hate them for what they did, but. You’re asleep in the bed next to me, mouth open, drooling all over the pillow. There’s a gun under that pillow but your face is relaxed, open and trusting and **young** and you’re so fucking beautiful. All these years, all this time, and I still feel my chest go tight and my lungs dry up every time I look at you. And I get to. I have you in ways I never dreamed I could. _

_I’m so glad I lived. Everything Hydra did, everything they took—it doesn’t matter. They didn’t take you._

_But please, please may I never lose you again. I wouldn’t survive it._

_________________

**BUCKY**

_Istanbul, 2017_

Bucky Barnes is running for his life. It’s become a painfully common occurrence in the last two years, but few days have been as bad as this. He has no idea where Steve is, which makes a tight, furious ball of worry coil heavy in his chest, and the bullet lodged in his leg is making sprinting increasingly difficult. The black ops strike team had gotten the drop on them, shooting him before he even had a chance to react. He put three of them down but they just kept _coming,_ and now he’s running.

He turns a sharp left, darting into the maze of the Grand Bazaar. Shouts rise up close behind him, _too close,_ ordering him to stop, but he tunes them out, skidding as his feet hit the tile. He doesn’t fall, but it’s a near thing. His leg burns and he tunes that out, too. They aren’t going to open fire in here, too many civilians, and he’s fairly certain he can lose them.

He turns another corner, sneakers slick with the blood streaming down his jeans, and narrowly avoids crashing into a startled family of tourists. They gawp at him, no doubt taking in the metal arm, the smears of red across his pants and shirt, and his wild eyes. The woman opens her mouth to scream and Bucky shoulders past her. He can still hear them—five, heavily armed, fanning out in an effort to trap him.

He briefly debates going for the rooftops, but no, too exposed. His entire right leg is wet. They must have nicked an artery. Fuck, fuck, he needs to think—why can’t he _think?_ And where the _fuck_ is Steve?

He rounds another corner, gasping when his leg nearly gives out, and ducks through a stall of carpets, ignoring the angry shouts of the merchant. If he can just find a place to hide, then maybe—

_Crack._

He cries out, shocked, as a bullet tears into his stomach. _Fuck,_ so much for not shooting around civilians. And he didn’t see it, how could he have not seen it? He shoves the pain down as deep as he can and keeps going, turning down a smaller path. People scramble out of his way, yelling in half a dozen different languages. The bottom half of his shirt is soaked and he’s starting to feel lightheaded.

Focus. _Focus._

He can’t see any of his pursuers and he takes the opportunity to slow to a brisk walk, scanning the various stalls. There, an older woman is manning a stall overflowing with various foods and spices. There’s plenty of room behind the counter to hide—the large displays will shield him from view—and he staggers forward, forcing his brain to switch to Turkish and his eyes to go wide and pathetic as he stops in front of her.

 _“Please,”_ he forces out, wrapping a protective arm around his middle. He lost his coat in the initial ambush and her eyes immediately dart to his metal arm, but they rest on his face and soften slightly. _“Please, I need to hide. Just for a moment, please?”_

The woman nods slowly, pointing behind her, and he stammers out his thanks as he sinks onto the cool tile behind the display. The burner phone is buzzing in the pocket of his jeans and he pulls it out, flipping it open with trembling fingers.

“Steve.”

 _“Where are you?”_ Steve sounds breathless and panicked. Bucky closes his eyes. The shouting is getting closer and blood is pooling onto the tile beneath him.

“You need to get out.”

_“I’m **not** leaving you.” _

Bucky shakes his head, blinking back a stupid, sudden onslaught of tears. He’s always known that someday their luck would end, that they’d run out of world to hide in and their enemies would find them. As long as it’s him and not Steve. They’ll put a bullet in his head, probably, but at least that’s quick and Steve will still be out there, saving the world like he’s meant to.

It’s an easy sacrifice.

“I’m cornered,” he says into the phone, keeping his voice steady. “Don’t come after me. You’ll just get caught, too. Get out. Meet up with the others.”

_“Bucky…”_

“Do it. _Go,_ Steve. I’m not asking.”

“ _I’ll come back for you. I promise.”_

Bucky closes his eyes. He can hear them walking down the corridor, checking the stalls. Any minute now…

He doesn’t ask Steve not to come, not to risk himself, because he knows Steve always will, for better or for worse. “I love you,” he says instead, voice thick.

" _I love you, too.”_

He clicks the phone shut and shoves it into a nearby bag of dried rice, just as three black ops members come bursting into the stall, guns raised. He puts his hands in the air and he doesn’t _think_ they’ll execute him right here, in front of so many gaping civilians, but they seem to be a terrible combination of angry and desperate so he mentally prepares himself for anything.

The leader raises his rifle and slams the butt down hard into Bucky’s face. Once. Twice.

Everything goes black.

 

_________________

**TONY**

He can barely hear the ringing of the phone over the music blaring from the speakers of his workshop. When Ross’ name flashes up on the screen, he reaches out and puts him on hold on instinct. Ross hasn’t called him in months—not since officially decommissioning the Avengers after the epic snafu that was Germany and then Siberia and _then_ Captain fucking America breaking four “dangerous criminals” out of the _supposedly_ most secure prison on the planet and happily skipping off into the ether to start life at the top of the UN’s hitlist.

And sure, Tony’s still technically on active duty, but he knows that he’s probably the absolute _last_ person Ross is going to call—only when world-ending scenarios are involved, and even then it would be debatable. Ross might actually prefer to watch the world burn to ash before asking for his help.

The screen flashes, insistent.

Tony tries to remember if aliens have invaded again. Someone would have told him about that, right? Rhodey, at least. Rhodey still calls to yell at him occasionally. Rhodey would definitely tell him about another invasion.

This must be about Rogers, then. Ross hates Rogers more than he does Tony and Rogers has slipped away from him four times in the last year. Each time, Ross calls Tony up to bitch about it. It would be hilarious if not for the ugly, tight mass of anger still thrumming against his ribs when he thinks of Rogers, or Barton, or any of them. Even Vision, who rattled off some bullshit about “unlocking the secrets of the infinity gem” and went on a (heavily monitored) visit to some monks in Nepal or Mongolia or something.

They’re all gone and Tony can’t remember the last time he spoke to another human being. Maybe last week? Did Rhodey call then? Or was it the week before that?

It doesn’t really matter. He prefers his machines, always has. Machines aren’t backstabbing traitors (not counting the one _massive_ exception to that rule, nope) and they don’t have perfect teeth or try to preach to him about Doing the Right Thing or lie to him about his parents _being fucking murdered,_ so yeah. He’s fine without people. Totally fine.

The screen beeps again, insistent. Tony sighs and debates just hanging up. He’s close to a breakthrough with this new gauntlet design and he’s not in the mood to hear about Captain America Grand Escape Number Five, but. Well. He hasn’t talked to another human being in one, maybe two weeks and the voice in the back of his head that sounds annoyingly like Pepper is insisting that’s unhealthy.

He braces himself and accepts the call.

“Stark,” Ross barks, annoyed, and Tony cuts him off at the pass.

“So how did you lose Rogers this time? Did he ride away on a unicorn? Ascend into the sky like Jesus? Oh wait, I bet he—”

“We have the Winter Soldier in custody,” Ross interjects and all the words die in Tony’s throat.

“How?” He blurts, because last time they managed that it did _not_ go over well. And now, if intelligent reports are to be believe Rogers and Barnes are pretty much glued to each other so one without the other is ... unexpected.

“We got a lead on their next destination and ambushed them in Istanbul. Rogers escaped but Barnes was injured in the initial assault. We’re holding him in New York until the Accords Committee reaches a decision on his fate.”

A creak of metal startles Tony. He glances down and realizes that he’s curled his gauntleted hand into a fist, fingers scraping against the palm. He takes a deep breath, forces himself to relax, even if he can see where this is going.

Ross considers losing Barnes again a world-ending scenario.

Sure enough, “We’re concerned about containment. You have some experience from dealing with Banner that could prove invaluable. We’d like you in New York as a consultant until the committee’s decision.”

Bingo. Nailed it.

Ross waits, expectantly—no doubt for him to jump to attention like a good little soldier. Ha.

“Please hold,” he says and freezes the screen again, cutting off Ross’ protests mid-splutter.

He hasn’t left the mansion in a month. At least a month, probably longer. He still wants to shoot Barnes in the face repeatedly until death and he’s not sure he’s going to be able to resist the temptation if he has to be in Barnes' immediate vicinity for more than five minutes. Maybe even one minute. He wants to hang up on Ross and hole away in his mansion until the next inevitable alien invasion. He wants revenge for his parents’ deaths. He wants to forget Rogers, forget what a mistake _trusting_ him was. He wants to watch Barnes suffer.

He wants to know _why._

Fuck, why is he even standing here debating this? He’s known what his inevitable answer will be from the moment Ross mentioned “Barnes” and “custody” in the same sentence without “escaped” between them. With a sharp sigh, he reengages the call.

“I’m on my way.”

He’s going to regret this. He can can already tell.

 

_________________

 

**BUCKY**

God. Everything is so fucking _white._ He would think himself dead but everything also hurts and he’s going to hell, not heaven. Memories rush back like a flood—Istanbul, ambush, wounds, bazaar, _Steve._ Steve got away. Steve is _safe._

He sags back against what he thinks is a floor and sucks in a sobbing breath. Steve made it out. That’s all that matters. He’ll take anything they want to throw at him if it means Steve stays out of danger. At least until he comes charging in with the cavalry, which will probably happen sooner rather than later.

Seven decades and Steve is nothing if not predictable—at least when it comes to dangerous, _stupid_ rescue missions to save his sorry ass from whatever prison he’s managed to get himself thrown into. God, it’s irritating. He hates Steve’s Knight in Shining Armour tendencies just as much as he hates the fact that he always seems to end up the damsel. He supposes Steve is making up for the first ten years of their lives when Bucky was the one saving him, but still. Annoying. 

The thought of Steve pulls his flesh hand up to the chain around his neck on instinct. They let him keep it, thank fucking God, and he clutches the ring on the end of it tight enough to dig indents into his palm. It’s a nondescript silver band with some African symbols engraved on the sides, but it’s the only possession Bucky genuinely _cherishes_. Steve bought it in a market in Cape Town and presented it to him with a sheepish smile after a truly _epic_ round of sex and he will wear it until the end of his days.

The ring is here, but his whole left side feels stranger, lighter. Bucky opens his eyes again, squinting against the harsh florescent light, and lifts his head.

His arm is gone. Those _fuckers_ took his arm.

He’s not really that surprised—was when they didn’t remove it in Germany—but helpless anger still burns through his blood. That arm, even though he loathes it, is a part of him and they just _took_ it. He feels, absurdly, like they’ve maimed him.

He’s too tired to pitch a fit at the moment, though, and he can still feel the lingering ache and pull of his wounds. He files it away for later and uses his right hand to push himself up into a sitting position. His stomach twinges in protest, but he stubbornly ignores it. It will heal. Those kind of wounds always do.

Instead he looks around, cataloguing his surroundings. White ceiling. Slate grey walls on three sides that look like reinforced steel and concrete. The fourth a glass wall and what he assumes is the front of his cell. No furniture. A metal cuff around his ankle attached to a chain bolted into the floor. A harsh tug proves it’s anchored well and is not going to come up easy. The chain looks long enough to allow him movement around the room, but he’s almost certain it will retract automatically if he tries anything.

His head hurts—they probably pumped him full of sedatives to get him here; he can still taste them in his cotton dry mouth— and he can feel the tender pulse of still-healing bruises from where the black ops squad had bashed his face in with a semi-automatic.

There’s someone outside his cell. He hears the sharp, in and out rhythm of their breath—feels their eyes boring into the side of his face.

“Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty,” a familiar voice announces before he can force words out of his parched, raw throat.

Howard Stark’s son steps up to the glass. He has his hands stuffed in his pockets and his shoulders loose, casual, but his eyes burn like a furnace.

Bucky stifles a groan and the urge to immediately curl up into a protective ball.

Shit.


	2. Chapter 2

“Worry only about what you control. The rest is war.” 

**\- Matthew J. Hefit**

 

________________

 

**TONY**

 

Barnes looks different. For some reason, that’s the first thought that crosses his mind. He’s cut his hair short, making him look almost exactly like his picture at the Smithsonian. Younger, too.

Not his eyes, though. Those are tracking Tony warily, like a cornered animal, and he remembers a gun going off in his face, the terror that, for an instant, froze his blood. Now, the anger is stronger. He can still hear the crunch of his father’s bones beneath Barnes’ fist, the choking gasps of his mother’s dying breaths. They play like a horrific soundtrack over his nightmares of Barnes’ empty eyes and Steve’s sad, _knowing_ ones. A car hitting a tree on an empty road over and over and over.

Hence the sleepless nights and the copious amounts of alcohol he’s been consuming for _months._

“Here’s how this is gonna work.” He mentally pats himself on the back for keeping his voice steady and light. “Walls are made of reinforced steel and six layers of concrete and the glass is bulletproof. If you so much as put a scratch on it or a dent in the walls the room will flood with enough knockout gas to slow the _Hulk_ down for two whole minutes, which means you’ll be out for a few days if not a fucking week so I don’t recommend trying anything.”

Barnes glances around his cell, looking neither surprised nor intimidated.

Tony forces a deep, calming breath through his burning lungs. “Meals are two times a day, bathroom breaks three. Security cameras at the door and in all corners of the room. Two guards right outside and another three in the control booth at all times—all armed with nice big guns. Think you can behave?”

Barnes looks at him. The bruises and cuts stand out sharp against his too-pale skin and the tan scrubs they’ve put him in make him look smaller, somehow. Tony hates hates _hates_ him.

“Yes,” he rasps softly. It’s literally the fourth time Tony’s ever heard him speak. A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Can’t say the same for Steve.”

Tony scoffs, bitter. “Oh yes, no doubt he’s mounting a heroically daring rescue but don’t get your hopes up too high, princess. He has to find you first, which we haven’t made easy this time, by the way, and then break into what is now the most secure building on the _planet._ That’s gonna take him a least a week, maybe even two, and by then, _hopefully_ , the Accords Committee will have decided to put a bullet in your _fucking_ skull so he’ll be just in time to collect your body.”

Barnes shakes his head. “That won’t end well for you.” He says it like a fact, instead of a threat, and Tony’s nails dig crescent grooves into his palms, sparking pain up his wrists.

He barely notices.

“How so?” He snaps, taking a threatening step towards the cage. “I finally get to see my parents’ _murderer_ pay for his fucking crimes. Sounds like a pretty good deal to me.”

Barnes’ gaze is steady and sad. His mouth twists again into a wry, terrible smile. “He’ll burn the world down in retaliation, including you.” 

“He’s more than welcome to try.”

“Can you kill him?” Barnes asks. “Because that will be the only way to stop him.”

He _could,_ Tony knows instantly. If it came to it, he could. He almost did, in Siberia—he had _wanted_ to—and the furnace-hot anger has frozen over the past year into an icy shell of stone and black, bitter steel around the remnants of his exploded heart. He _could,_ and he hates himself for it.

“Enjoy your stay,” he says with a jagged smile and turns away.

Barnes’ eyes bore into his back as he leaves.

 

________________

 

So he wasn’t planning on coming back. Seriously. But he’s maybe had a _teensy bit_ too much to drink and his quarters are boring and there are questions buzzing around in his head like persistent flies. Rhodey and Pepper always used to tell him he needed to work on his impulse control. As he stops in front of Barnes’ cell, he thinks they might be right.

“You beat my father to death,” he says without preamble. Screw it. He’s here and he doesn’t feel like walking all the way back to his room. Might as well just roll with it. “Caved his face in. _Strangled_ my mother. Like it was _nothing.”_

Barnes is sitting with his back against the wall, legs splayed out in front of him. The cuts on his face are fading, the bruises completely gone. His eyes slide open, blink at Tony for a moment.

“It _was_ nothing,” he says and Tony’s blood _boils._

“ _What?”_ He snarls, stopping right in front of the glass.

“It was nothing,” Barnes repeats. “Because _I_ was nothing. I couldn’t feel empathy or remorse. It didn’t matter that I knew them or they were innocent. Everything human in me had been burned away. There was only the desire to follow orders. That’s all they left me with.”

“Are you making _excuses?”_ Because, oh that’s rich. Barnes flinches like Tony’s struck him, eyes widening.

“No,” he says, sitting up a little straighter. “No. I …" His expression darkens. "I know what I am. I murdered them. Their blood is on my hands and I’m so—”

“ _Don’t,”_ Tony cuts him off, trying to breathe around the pain and fury roaring in his chest. He doesn’t want pointless apologies. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

He turns around and pretends he isn’t fleeing as he stalks from the room.

 

________________

 

“So here’s what I don’t get.” He’s brought the alcohol with him this time because he’s pathetic and he’s not nearly drunk enough yet and there’s no one left to judge him, okay?

Barnes is sitting in almost the exact same position. The cuts on his face are gone. If it wasn’t for the fact that Tony _knows_ they take him out for bathroom breaks three times a day, he’d think Barnes hasn’t moved a muscle since he first woke up. Barnes looks washed-out and too small under the unforgiving fluorescents and Tony stubbornly tells himself that he doesn’t care.  He _doesn’t._

To prove it to himself, he takes another long pull of whiskey, savouring the burn of it down his throat and tries to adopt his normal I Am Tony Stark and I Don’t Give a Fuck pose. Somehow, he thinks Barnes sees right through him.

“You remember. You said you do. You admitted that you have all this blood on your hands so if you feel guilty about it why did you run? Why didn’t you turn yourself in? Put a bullet in your head? Why didn’t you just lie down and _die?”_

“Would that help?” Barnes sounds genuinely curious, rather than accusatory. “Watching me suffer? Watching me die? Would it make you feel better?”

 _Yes,_ Tony tries to say but the word lodges in his throat like lead.

 

________________

 

“How many? Besides my parents?”

So this has become a thing and Tony isn’t sure why or how but he can’t seem to stop. Barnes is an obsession that hovers just under his skin, rattles in the back of his mind.

His rooms are too silent and without his machines or projects to keep him occupied, he can feel himself starting to spiral again and this time there’s no one left to catch him. And sure, he could pace around and talk to himself or FRIDAY if he wanted.  It would be enough to get himself out of his own head, but Barnes is better. Easier. Around Barnes he can channel his hatred and anger outwards and for a while it stops gnawing at his ribcage.

It never lasts, but hey, he’ll take what he can get, these days.

“Thirty-four high profile assassinations,” Barnes says. He’s switched walls today and Tony is sitting crossed-legged on the floor in front of the cell, customary bottle of alcohol in his lap. He thinks it’s vodka but he can’t really taste it.

Barnes has a new bruise blossoming across his left cheek. Someone must have hit him. Worse than a punch, it looks like—baton maybe? Gun?

Right. He doesn’t care. 

“And?”

Barnes sighs. “And others. A lot of others. They all … it blurs together. There was Vietnam, for a while. Soldiers, mostly civilians. Collateral damage.”

Tony’s fingers tighten around the bottle. “Really? Is that what they were?”

Barnes winces again and sighs, weary. “Yes. To HYDRA that’s what they were.”

“And to you?” Tony presses, insistent.

Barnes’ eyes slide closed. “Ghosts.”

 

________________

 

His father’s cheek cracks beneath Barnes’ fist, blood drips onto the road. Another punch, splintering bone. His mother cries in the burning front seat. Chokes and gasps for her last breaths with Barnes’ fingers crushing her windpipe.

Barnes’ eyes are dead and across a screen, Steve looks him with grief and _regret_ and something cracks sharp and brutal inside Tony’s chest.

He drinks and drinks and it isn’t enough.

________________

 

“Is it going to be you?”

Tony blinks. They’d been sitting in stony silence for, oh wow, ten minutes. Barnes has moved closer to the glass and is looking at him with those inquisitive eyes.

“Pardon?”

“When they give the execution order. Are you going to be the one carrying it out?” Barnes says _when_ not _if_ and he doesn’t seem particularly disturbed about the idea of dying. Tony is probably too drunk for this conversation but, hey, carpe diem.

“I don’t know,” he mutters. He doubts it. Ross and the UN will want to do this properly—firing squad. Electric chair or lethal injection won’t work on Barnes. It’ll have to be bullets, a lot of them. Or a few well-timed blasts from the suit.

“It should be,” Barnes continues. He looks exhausted. It’s been two and a half weeks with no sign of Rogers. Maybe Barnes is giving up. “If it would help you.”

“Why should you care?” Tony grumbles irritability.

Barnes frowns at him like the answer should be obvious. Maybe it is and Tony’s stupid, bleeding heart is tripping him up again.

Barnes looks too human.

“Never mind,” Tony says before Barnes can answer properly. He lays back against the cool metal floor, staring up at the too-bright lights. His head hurts. Everything fucking hurts these days, though, so big whoop.

“I don’t want to know.”

 

________________

 

He needs to stop this, he decides in a rare moment of sobriety. He doesn’t want to care about Barnes or his fate. He can’t technically _leave_ until a decision has been made but he’s not going to visit anymore.

Determined, he ships over some of his tools and goes back to fine-tuning his suit. Either the committee will have Barnes executed or Rogers will storm the castle in an attempt to save him. Nothing Tony can do but wait and dwelling on this continuing shitshow isn’t doing anything soothe the rage or, and he will only admit this to himself, the grief.

So he tinkers and drinks and tries desperately not to think about anything else.

 

________________

 

**BUCKY**

His jaw aches from where one of the guards hit him yesterday. Apparently he wasn’t moving fast enough on the way to the bathroom. At least the _other_ guard reprimanded the first one for the brutality but he had to check that the ring was still around his neck and his hair was short at least five times when they put him back in the cell.

Not HYDRA. This isn’t HYDRA.

It’s been almost three weeks and no sign of Steve. He’s relieved. It means Steve (or probably Natasha, Sam, and Clint on Steve’s behalf) is thinking this through instead of charging in like a reckless, enraged bull. And Bucky can wait. This isn’t so bad. The cell is too white and _boring,_ but God, he’s had so much worse.

Tony Stark’s words and anger cut like knives against his skin but he can see the raw, terrible _grief_ beneath all that fury and he understands. He wants to tell Stark that he’s sorry, he’s so sorry, and he would have put a bullet in his own head two years ago but he can’t leave Steve alone, he just _can’t,_ he loves him too much to do that to him, as selfish as that may be.

But Stark doesn’t want his words or his useless, helpless apologies, so he keeps his mouth shut and lets Stark vent.

In a strange, twisted way, he’s almost glad for the company.

Except it isn’t Stark that visits him tonight, but Ross. There’s a grim expression on the man’s face and Bucky immediately knows. Execution, then, as he suspected it would be. Four guards flank Ross and the door to the cell opens. They pin his flesh arm behind his back and unhook the chain around his ankle. He thinks about fighting, but he can’t take four of them without the metal arm, and as appealing as dying on his feet is, he’s so fucking tired.

 _Steve, Steve, I’m so sorry._ The ring is a comforting weight against his chest. He hopes, desperately, that they let him keep it until the end.

They can’t tie his hands so they snap a restraining collar around his neck. The corridors are endless and maze-like and remind him too much of HYDRA so he tries his best to tune everything out. Will it be a firing squad? Or just Iron Man?

Will it be quick?

He hopes so, for Steve’s peace of mind.

 _Steve._ He swallows down the fierce tide of his love and his sorrow. He’d always hoped, selfishly, that they would go out together, side by side.

They turn a final corner and Ross punches a complicated code into a panel on the wall. Steel doors slide open and the guards shove him into a large, nearly empty room. There’s no sign of Tony Stark or a firing squad, but in the centre, surrounded by various equipment, is a terrifyingly familiar chair.

All of the air evaporates in his lungs as his mind screams in panic.

No, _no._

He digs his heels in and throws his weight back on instinct, slamming his head into a guard’s nose. There’s a sickening _crunch_ and a bitten-off scream. He twists with the momentum, wrenching his arm free and slamming his fist into a second guard’s throat. Ross is shouting, but all Bucky can hear is the horrified roaring in his head. Another guard pulls taut on the leash attached to collar, cutting off his air, and he snarls. Drops low and sweeps the man’s feet out from under him.

As he hits the floor, Bucky grabs his head and slams it into the concrete hard enough to knock him unconscious.

Exit, there has to be an exit.

He scrambles for the guard’s gun, but just as his fingers close around the grip, a baton cracks against the side of his head and a booted foot kicks the pistol away. There are more guards now, flooding the room on all sides. They wrestle him off the floor and drag him towards the chair.

_No no no._

He can’t breathe through the terror wrapped around his chest like a vice.

“Please,” he gasps, twisting to look at Ross. “Please don’t do this.”

Ross’ expression is sad, guilty, but resolute. “I’m sorry, Barnes. You’re too valuable an asset to contain or terminate. The committee has decided that this is a necessary evil.”

Bucky laughs, broken and sick, as they shove him into the chair. “It won’t work,” he hiccups as they secure metal bands around his arm and chest. He can feel tears forming, dripping down onto his cheeks. “They tried for seventy fucking years and they couldn’t make me kill him.”

He glares up at Ross. “You won’t be able to either, you motherfucking bastard.”

“I’m sorry,” Ross says again, heavy, and waves at the technicians. The metal snaps tight. One of them darts forward and forces a rubber guard into his mouth. He immediately tries to spit it back out, but they tie it in place with a strap fastened behind his head.

He still can’t breathe.

The machine whirs, a familiar, terrible hum, and he can see the arms reaching down, feel the crackle of electricity on his skin.

He pictured a thousand terrible ends but somehow, never this.

 _Steve,_ he thinks desperately, clinging to the memory of him. The taste of his mouth, the feel of his skin, the edges of his smile. Brooklyn, before the war, kissing on a rickety bed. Dance halls, laughter, Steve’s delicate hands tracing pencils across sketchbook paper, love blooming bright and terrifying in his chest.

The arms fasten on either side of his head. The taste of rubber is poison in his mouth.

Europe, the war, watching Steve become a legend and stain his hands with blood and death that should have never been his to bear. That stupid shield, that stupid _uniform,_ but love still. All consuming, inescapable. A fall, a death, a new life. Steve now, with soft hair and blue, blue eyes. Big hands that cup his cheeks and strong arms wrapped around him at night.

_I love you._

“Do it,” Ross says from somewhere far away. Lightning crackles and agony lances into his head, whiting out his vision.

_Iloveyouiloveyouiloveyouiloveyouilove—_

Memories run like water, like blood, and Bucky screams until his voice gives out. 


	3. Chapter 3

“Just because something bears the aspect of the inevitable one should not, therefore, go along willingly with it.”

                            ― **Philip K. Dick**

________________

 

**TONY**

He’s managed to stay away for three whole days. He’s actually kind of proud of that. Of course, he’s ruining all his progress tonight but still, three days isn’t bad for a first run. And he didn’t even bring alcohol tonight.

He steps into the room containing Barnes’ cell, giving a jaunty wave at the security cameras, and promptly freezes.

Barnes is curled up in the far corner of his cell, hunched over bent knees like he’s trying to make himself disappear. His eyes are bloodshot and unfocused and he’s muttering to himself as he clutches the ring around his neck.

“James Barnes, 32557038. March 10, 1917. Brooklyn, New York. Sergeant in the 107th, Second World War. T-taken … taken by HYDRA in 1945. E-escaped 2014. Current year 2017. Steve. _Steve,”_ he sucks in a wet breath, voice starting to slur, and squeezes his red-rimmed eyes shut. “Steve Rogers. B-born July 4th, 1918. Cap—Captain America until … until—”

Tony takes a stunned step forward, into the light, and Barnes’ eyes snap to him. He blinks, sluggish, before clarity abruptly dawns. Tony watches with confusion and mounting dread as Barnes scrambles to his feet, unsteady without his left arm, and staggers up to the glass.

“Stark,” he gasps, gaze fever bright. “Stark, could you do me a favour? Please?”

“What?” Tony manages because this is new and unexpected and he’s got a really Bad Feeling.

“Kill me,” Barnes says, pressing a hand against the glass, expression desperate and _earnest_. “You can take as long as you want. Just … just please give this ring and my journals to Steve. Ross took the journals, but they should still be here. Give those to Steve, please, and you can do whatever you like? As long … as long as you finish it. Please?”

 _Fuck,_ what? _What?_ The Bad Feeling shoots down his spine, settling into the pit of his stomach like a sack of stones. His horror must be written all over his face because Barnes switches tactics before Tony can figure how what the hell he’s supposed to say to _that._

“Or just give me a gun, if that would be easier, and I can do it myself. Just give me a gun.”

“Jesus, Barnes,” Tony finally forces out. “What the hell?”

“I can’t hurt him,” Barnes says. “I _won’t._ I won’t become that ever again. Please, Stark, just give me a gun.”

The dread is whispering in the back of his mind now, insistent. He knows what this is, it hisses. He _knows._

Ignoring Barnes, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and starts hacking on blind, furious instinct. A few quick commands shut down the audio on the security feeds and another complicated one brings up all the security footage from the past week. He flicks through it with frantic urgency, that terrible voice urging him on, and there.

Oh God. There.

A room, open, large. A chair, similar to one in another base, that doesn’t belong, right in the centre. And in the chair…

He presses play on the video and the room floods with the sound of Barnes’ helpless screams. The real Barnes flinches violently, hanging his head. His shoulders shake and his fingers curl into a fist against the glass, but he stays on his feet. Tony listens, _watches,_ frozen in shock as whatever procedure they’re conducting in the footage ends and the machine powers down, leaving Barnes to sag against his restraints, barely conscious.

Even on the blurry video Tony can see tear tracks on his face and blood at the edges of his mouth from where the gag cut in.

“They’re trying to erase me,” Barnes’ voice breaks him out of his stupor. He tears his eyes from his phone to Barnes’ face. “Like HYDRA did. But I won’t … I _can’t_ let them so, _please,_ Stark just ... just give me a fucking gun.”

Fury burns the shock away, igniting his nerves like a live wire. _Fuck_ this He doesn’t care how angry he is at Barnes; how much he still hates him _._ He didn’t sign up for torture.

( _Ice water engulfing him flooding his mouth and lungs and he can’t breathe he can’t breathe but they won’t let him up and he can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t—)_

He taps a few more commands into his phone and the security alarms shut off, the cameras shift into a static loop. Barnes is watching him, eyes too big in his face— _young_ and terribly human. Tony purposefully ignores him—can’t really see anything past the rage that’s tunnelling his vision into laser focus. He pulls up a program on his phone and hovers it over the keypad to Barnes’ cell, letting it extract the code.

The guards are going to be in here any minute. C’mon, c’mon…

_Beep._

The door to Barnes’ cell slides open just as the door to the control room does. Three guards rush into the room, rifles raised, but Tony’s ready. He taps his watch and raises his hand as the gauntlet unfolds over it, blasting the guards with a flashbang before they can fire. Two of them drop to their knees and Tony surges forward, knocking the first one out with a well-aimed kicked and the second a punch from his gauntleted hand. The third guard raises his rifle, inches from Tony’s face, but suddenly Barnes is there, grabbing the rifle and yanking it out of the guard’s grip.

The man’s eyes go wide, startled, for an instant before Barnes lays him out with a vicious blow to the head.

Two more guards pour in through the second door, opening fire immediately. Tony blocks a shot with his hand and fires another flare. As the guards stumble, blinded, Barnes yanks a pistol from one of their unconscious comrades’ belts and shoots them both in the leg. Non-fatal, Tony notes. As they moan on the floor, Barnes crosses the room in three quick strides and knocks them unconscious.

The silence that fills the room is thick, choking. Tony’s heart feels ready to beat out of his chest.

Barnes turns back to him but doesn’t raise the gun.

“We probably have about ten minutes before they figure out what’s happening,” Tony says, taking out his phone again. “FRIDAY’s searching for your arm. They’re probably keeping it close by so—”

His phone beeps. Yep, just down the hall. So predictable.

“Wait here. I’ll go and—”

“No,” Barnes says. Tony rolls his eyes.

“You can’t go wandering the halls, Terminator. You’re too noticeable so just sit tight and let me go get your fucking arm, okay? I’ll be right back.”

He moves before Barnes can protest further. Thankfully, Barnes stays put—though honestly Tony wouldn’t have minded the opportunity to blast him in the face. Just once.

The corridor outside is empty. Which is kind of to be expected since everyone’s afraid of Barnes—personnel seem to avoid this whole floor like the plague and those that do end up here for shifts are … _twitchy._ Tony keep his gauntlet on just in case someone rounds a corner and gets twitchy with him. He’d like to get through this without getting shot, thank you very much.

Barnes isn’t worth a bullet, no matter how compelling his wounded puppy expression is.

He stops in front of weapons storage and runs the code breaker again. So far so good, though he isn’t about the let go of the paranoia tensing his muscles and spine.

Fuck, he can’t believe he's doing this.

( _On the video Barnes screams and screams and screams like he’s dying and in the cell Barnes begs him for a gun to put in his own mouth.)_

Oh wait, he can.

The door beeps. Slides open. A scan proves no hidden traps—just two security cameras that FRIDAY loops easily. God, this is almost pathetic. People need to stop underestimating Barnes. And him. Mostly him in this scenario, actually.

He finds the arm in a secure locker in the back of the room, alongside the pack Barnes was carrying in Istanbul. Inside is a few changes of clothes, a Gerber Mark II Combat Knife, and the aforementioned journals. Tony hefts the surprisingly heavy arm and shoves it into the pack, slinging it over his shoulder.

The weight causes him to stumble a step and he catches his balance on a weapons rack. Jesus. They must have reinforced Barnes’ body with something more than just the serum for him to be able to wield this as easily as he does.

But he can think about that later. Focus. He is super glad he didn’t down the whole bottle of vodka he was planning on earlier this evening.

Especially when he walks out the door and smack into another guard. There’s a suspended, almost comical moment of disbelief as they stare at each other before instinct kicks in and Tony decks him in the face with his armoured hand. The guard sways and then slumps forward _onto him_ like a sack of potatoes. He staggers under the combined weight of Ass Clown and the pack, slamming back into the door with a metallic clang that echoes loudly down the corridor.

Shit.

He pauses there, waiting with baited breath, but there are no shouts or footsteps or gunfire. So far so lucky, it seems.

Exhaling, he shoves Ass Clown off him, watching him crumple to the floor. He then has to waste precious time hacking _back_ into the weapons storage because he doesn’t want to leave AC just lying out here in the hallway for any idiot to trip over. Once he’s finally managed to stuff AC behind some crates in the back of the room, he’s been gone for nearly ten minutes.

Hopefully Barnes hasn’t gotten impatient and gone looking because that would go over _so_ well.

He slips back into the holding room and nearly crashes into the gun pointed at his head. “Whoa, it’s me. Down, boy.”

Barnes lowers the gun with a spectacular eye roll and holds out an impatient hand for the pack. Dick.

The guards have all been put in Barnes’ cell— and an unlucky one stripped of his uniform, of which Barnes is currently wearing the pants, boots, and undershirt. Tony finds himself staring at the mess of ugly scars on Barnes’ shoulder where metal meets flesh. God, what a hack job. No finesse at all.

 _He_ would have—

Nope. Don’t care. He doesn’t care.

“Help me with this?” Barnes asks, holding up the arm.

Tony drags his eyes away from the remnants of torture still painted into Barnes’ skin ( _scars so deep and horrific that not even a serum could heal them, Jesus)_ and sighs dramatically.

“If I must.”

He takes the arm and Barnes turns to expose the port. “Just stick it in and rotate—”

“Mechanic here, pal. You can skip the how-to manual.”

Barnes rolls his eyes again and then claps his flesh hand over his mouth. Tony arches a questioning eyebrow at him. Maybe there’s nerve endings in the port? Barnes glares, a clear _get on with it,_ so Tony stops thinking, reminds himself for the hundredth time that _he doesn’t care,_ and jams the arm into the socket. There’s a spark and a whir as Tony begins rotating the arm into position and suddenly Barnes jerks and screams, muffled into his hand.

Well shit.

Tony keeps going, gritting his teeth against the resistance, until the arm finally, _finally_ snaps into place. Barnes heaves a few deep breaths and drops his other hand. There’s bruises on his cheek from where his fingers dug in, God.

 _Definitely_ a hack job. Even nerve connections shouldn’t hurt like that. Did those idiots even know what they were …

Of course they did, he realises, feeling a little sick. Of course they did. It’s _supposed_ to hurt.

Barnes is swinging his arm in wide circles, calibrating. It whirs and hums, metal plates shifting into position like some kind of creepy snake. Tony wrenches himself always from disturbing thoughts.

“Right. You need to go. I’ll do what I can about the cameras. East stairwell should take you to—”

“I’m sorry about this,” Barnes interrupts from behind him.

He starts to turn, but something solid and metal connects with the side of his head and everything goes dark.

 

________________

 

**BUCKY**

 

Stark crumbles towards the floor, but Bucky snags him by the back of the shirt and lowers him gently. His head still feels sluggish, foggy, and a part of him can’t believe that Stark actually _let him go,_ but there was no mistaking the horrified anger on Stark’s face when he saw the video and Stark’s hatred towards him flows from a deep well of grief and betrayal, not cruelty.

Tony Stark had no desire to see him tortured and for that Bucky isn’t going to let Ross throw him in prison as a retaliation for Bucky’s escape.

Howard’s blood is thick enough on his hands. He doesn’t need to add the man’s son to the deluge.

Leaving Stark, he quickly pulls on the rest of the guard’s uniform, fixing the mask and protective goggles over his face. It feels strange, _wrong,_ but he shakes away the encroaching flashback. The ring is an ever-comforting anchor beneath his clothes, cool against his chest. He secures the helmet and pulls the gloves on. Leaves the rifle—not going to kill anyone if he can help it—and holsters the pistol at his side.

A quick check of his pack reveals that his journals are still safe, thank God. They probably put them back when they realised the contents are about ninety percent pointless sap, not valuable information. Some days he doesn’t know why he’s still writing—just that after three years it’s become an addiction, a crutch almost, that he can’t shake. He likes knowing that if anything happens, his thoughts and memories exist outside of himself now, free from his minefield of a brain.

He shrugs the pack over his shoulders and crouches next to Stark, pulling his phone out of his pocket. It’s more hi-tech than anything Bucky’s dealt with before, but Tony broke him out of here using some kind of AI and he’s going to need its help to get the rest of the way.

“FRIDAY?” He murmurs at the phone, feeling like an idiot.

The phone whirs to life in his hand and a lilting Irish voice speaks through the radio in his helmet. “I’m soundin’ the alarm.”

“Wait,” he snaps. “I’m going to get him somewhere safe, I promise. I just need your help.”

There’s a pause and then, thankfully, “Fine. But the threat stands.”

He slips the phone into his own pocket with a shake of his head. Naturally Stark would make his AI both incredibly human and incredibly protective. As he stands a spasm twitches through his right arm and he clenches his teeth. He can still taste rubber in his mouth and his left arm aches, nerves raw from the connection, but his head is clear. He has a mission: escape. Keep Stark safe. Minimum casualties.

Bucky Barnes can fall apart later. When it’s over.

He switches his radio on and raises his voice, mimics the slight German accent of the guard whose uniform he’s wearing. “Code Red on Level Forty-Five. I repeat, Code Red on Level Forty-Five. Cell breach. The prisoner has escaped. All stationed guards unconscious and Tony Stark injured.”

There’s immediately a panicked flurry of activity over the comm. “I’m taking Stark to medical,” he continues, bending down to heft Stark onto his back. “Barnes last sighted heading towards the east stairwell.”

He tunes out the rest of the chatter as he steps into the corridor. “FRIDAY, I need a safe route out. Loop all the cameras as we go.”

“Searching now,” FRIDAY answers.

An alarm blares to life. On the comms someone orders all non-combatant personnel to be evacuated. Guards are to fan out and search every floor. All exits, except those being used for evacuation, are to be on lockdown.

Expected pattern for the current situation, good. 

“Got it,” FRIDAY chimes. “Best option is the roof. Adjacent building has roof to street access, minimum security, and a parking deck.”

“Acknowledged.”

He’s halfway to the west stairwell when he realises he said that in Russian. For now, he doesn’t fight it. There are bigger immediate problems than his fucked up head.

The stairs are crawling with black-clad soldiers. Medical is three floors up so no one pays him much mind as he shoulders past with an unconscious Tony Stark on his back. Once they pass the forty-eighth floor he keeps one hand near his holster. He makes it to the fifty-fifth floor unhindered. The roof is six floors away and three guards are blocking his path, rifles raised.

“Stop.” The middle one orders. “Where are you going?”

He draws his pistol. Three shots. Shoulder, leg, side. Non-lethal. The guards crumple, still try to fire. He kicks one in the face, slams the second into the wall, and chokes the third until he goes limp.

It’s over in thirty-seven seconds, but the shots were loud in the quiet of the stairwell, and he can hear shouting from several floors below. He holsters the pistol and continues at a run, taking several stairs at a time.

The top five floors are clear and he breaks the door to roof access with his left hand. In his helmet, a cacophony of voices shout back and forth. Prisoner in the stairwell. Prisoner confirmed on the fifty-fifth floor. Prisoner potentially headed for the roof. Get choppers in the air.

He glances to the nearby building that FRIDAY highlighted. Distance roughly sixty feet. Easy in normal circumstances but complicated by Stark.

Soldiers on the fifty-six floor. Fifty-seventh.

He pulls Starks arms further over his shoulders and secures them against his chest with the strap from the pack.

Fifty-eighth floor.

He backs up to the edge of the roof and starts to sprint. Leaps into the gap, metal arm extended. Manages to grab onto the ledge of the adjacent building, wincing as he slams into the brick. Gets his feet under him and hauls himself up. 

Fifty-ninth floor.

He adjusts his hold on Stark and runs for the door. The thin metal yields easily beneath his fist and he slams it shut behind him just as the soldiers reach the roof.

Prisoner missing. Could he have jumped? Impossible, carrying Stark? Widen search area. Check the rest of the building.

He enters the service elevator. Presses the button for the parking deck and carefully sets Stark on the floor, followed by the pack. Methodically strips off the the guard’s uniform, starting with the mask, goggles, and helmet. After a moment of consideration, he keeps the boots, and pulls a spare change of clothes from the pack.

The floors tick by as he dresses, kicks the uniform into a corner. Once he’s shrugged a jacket over his shoulders he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and reminds himself that he’s Bucky Barnes, pushing the Soldier back into the recesses of his mind.

He’s James Buchanan Barnes. He was born on March 10, 1917 in Brooklyn, New York.  He served in the 107th in WWII. He escaped HYDRA after seventy years of torture and brainwashing. He’s in love with Steve Rogers. It’s 2017. He's free. 

He repeats that mantra until the elevator stops and his mind has settled enough for him to think without resorting to the Soldier’s cold, relentless logic.

His head and arm still ache and his flesh fingers twitch slightly, but it will pass. He knows that now. It _will_ pass.

The elevator doors slide open to a mercifully quiet parking garage. The voices still chattering away on his radio inform him that they’re scrambling for a proper response. They’ll start searching the adjacent buildings soon, but that will require calling in extra personnel and no doubt informing local law enforcement how badly they just fucked up. By then, if everything goes according to plan, he’ll be well out of the city. He can figure out step two of the grand escape then.

For now, he slides Stark onto his back again and goes in search of the most unassuming car he can find. Which happens to be a white Toyota Corolla three rows down from the elevator. No bumper stickers or other identifying marks and, he confirms by peering in the window, a nearly full tank of gas—perfect.

He jacks the car with practiced ease and lays Stark down across the back seat, covering him with his jacket.

“Okay, FRIDAY,” he says as he hotwires the car, setting Stark’s phone on the dash. “Get us out of here.”

“I’m not a GPS,” FRIDAY replies, sounding miffed. “But turn left out of the parking garage.”

Bucky feels a tired, amused smile pull at the corner of his mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”

He throws the car in reverse.

 

________________

 

**TONY**

 

 _God …_ what? Where ….?

Fuck … his head hurts. Hangover? Nope _way_ worse. Banner?

Haven’t seen him in over a year. So … what?

Wait. _Wait._ New York, screaming, _Barnes—_

Tony lurches upright and fires off a sound burst from his gauntlet. Which _ow, ow_ bad idea very very bad idea head _head splitting_ ow ow ow…

From very far away someone shouts “Jesus fuck!” and Tony lurches sideways, slamming into something solid. He groans, ears ringing, and forces his eyes open. There’s a gun in his face. And on the other end of the gun is Barnes.

Well fuck.

Tony snaps alert, headache receding beneath furious panic, and raises his gauntlet.

“Where,” he says with what he thinks is a truly _impressive_ amount of calm considering the current situation, “the fuck are we?”

Barnes blinks at him and doesn’t lower the gun. After a long pause he says, “Ohio?”

That sounds like a question. That shouldn’t sound like question. And _Ohio?_

“Why are we in _Ohio?_ Why am _I_ in Ohio _with you_ because, you know, I remember telling you to run, not kidnap me and bring me along like some kind of souvenir. You might not realise this, being an insane Russian assassin and all, but that’s generally frowned upon in polite society.”

Barnes scowls, but finally takes the freaking gun out of his face. Tony doesn’t retract the gauntlet. They’re in a car, he realises, as the ringing in his head eases slightly—a car that is currently in the middle of the field. He must have forced Barnes off the road with the initial blast.

Good. Cyborg bastard.

“I didn’t kidnap you,” Barnes says.

“The definition of kidnapping is taking someone against their will. And I _definitely_ don’t want to be here, so yeah, you did.”

Barnes runs his metal hand through his hair in frustration. It makes it stick up like a bird’s nest and totally ruins the fearsome assassin expression he’s still got on his face. Tony contemplates shooting him again, even if there is a high probability that his head will _actually_ split in two.

It might be worth it.

“Ross would have thrown you in prison,” Barnes snaps. “For helping me. I owe you.”

“So you decided to kidnap me? Pal, that is _not_ how you repay—”

“I got you out,” Barnes growls. His fingers twitch, like he wants to reach for his gun again. Tony raises the gauntlet a little higher. Probably ineffective but definitely comforting. “You may be Tony Stark but you’re not immune from treason.”

“I’m sure I would have figured something out without you _smashing my head in_ and carrying me off like a trophy, thank you, so you just sit there like a good boy and I’m going to get out of the car, okay? Then you’re going to drive _very far away_ and leave me in peace. Alternatively, I can shoot you again. I’m happy with that, too. In fact, now that I’m thinking about it—”

Barnes moves like lightning, covering the gauntlet with his metal hand. There’s an audible creak, but Barnes doesn’t break the glove or Tony’s wrist. He’s holding back. Rude. “No. Didn’t you hear me? Prison. Maybe execution. I’m your best option right now.”

“Let go,” Tony says—again with remarkable calm. Rhodey would be so proud.

Well not about the whole breaking an internationally wanted criminal out of prison, but still.

Barnes shakes his head. With his flesh hand, he twists and flicks on the radio. There’s a crackle of static and then a female voice, managing to sound both pleasant and urgent as only news anchors can, echoes through the car.

“… _nationwide manhunt continues for James Buchanan Barnes, the HYDRA assassin linked to numerous acts of terrorism, including the bombing of the UN building in Vienna last year. Barnes was apprehended by a CIA task force in Istanbul two weeks ago and was awaiting a verdict from the Accords Committee at a secure facility in New York._

_“However, Barnes managed to escape custody approximately 8 hours ago. Shockingly, evidence presented by the CIA and Secretary of State Thaddeus Ross suggests that billionaire and Avenger Tony Stark aided Barnes in his escape and has fled with him._

_“The suspects are considered extremely dangerous. If you have any information—”_

Barnes turns the radio off and Tony realises, suddenly, that he’s stopped breathing. He immediately seeks to remedy that fact, but his lungs don’t seem to be cooperating.

Shit.

“Stark,” Barnes says, actually starting to look _concerned,_ and no, no he is _not_ going to have a freaking anxiety attack in front of Barnes.

Nope. You hear that, lungs? Do you _want_ be embarrassed until the end of your days? No, right? So start working _now,_ please. Now would _definitely_ be good.

Mercifully, his lungs decide to obey and contract, expelling a rush of air from his mouth. He ignores Barnes’ inquisitive, _knowing,_ gaze and forces a few more measured breaths to cycle through—until his lungs finally remember what they’re fucking _for_ and start working properly again.

“Put that face away, Barnes,” he snaps when he’s stitched himself back together. “I’m fine.”

Barnes arches an eyebrow. “Still want to get out?”

Tony sighs, furious, and folds his gauntlet back into his watch. He wants to blame Barnes, but he was the one who opened the cell door. He is actually adult enough to realise (most of the time) when he’s fucked up, especially on this magnitude. He made his bed and now he has to lie in it.

Yay.

“No,” he grumbles like the mature, functioning adult he is. “But I’m taking the passenger seat.”

Barnes lets him exit the car and he pauses in front of the passenger door, taking in the white Toyota and the utterly boring field around them.

Ugh. Ohio.

Barnes raps on the glass, looking seconds away from laying on the horn like the total asshole that he is. Tony rolls his eyes and climbs back into the car.

“So, Dr Kimble, what’s the next step in your grand plan?”

Barnes puts the car in drive. Dried grass crunches loudly beneath the tires as they trundle back towards the road. “We’re almost out of gas.”

Tony sighs. Of fucking course.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise, on behalf of Tony Stark, to the good people of Ohio.

“Ghosts have a way of misleading you; they can make your thoughts as heavy as branches after a storm.” 

―  **Rebecca Maizel**  

________________

 

**From the journals of James Barnes, 2017:**

_I had to do it without you. Figure out who I am, who I was. I had two lives in my head, memories trickling in like water: Brooklyn, Siberia, Europe, killing people for you, for HYDRA. There were times I wasn’t sure what was real. Both of them? Neither?_

_It all hurt. When my brain healed enough it was like a dam opening. That week was a blur but I don’t think I left the mattress in my flat in Bucharest. Didn’t eat, didn’t sleep, just lay there screaming while it all poured in. I had gotten rid of all my weapons before that, which was a blessing. I would have put a bullet in my head if I’d had a gun._

_Two centuries. Two lives. But you were the constant in both. They told me you were dead, in 45. Showed me the footage, the newsreels, the whole damn nation mourning their fallen hero. They buried an empty casket in Arlington Cemetery. Even the president was there. I think a part of me gave up after that. I cracked just enough for them to get a foothold and that was the beginning of the end._

_Or maybe I was ending a long time before that._

_It doesn’t matter now. In Bucharest, I remembered loving you but that felt like another life, and I had to stitch myself up enough to figure out who I was now—if I could make a person out of all the broken pieces HYDRA had left behind. It had to be me sewing up the wounds. I needed the certainty of it, to be reminded that I could choose, that I still knew how to fight._

_I’m sorry for running away. God, there were so many times during those two years that I almost caved, let you find me. I missed you so much and fuck, it was hard. It’s still hard. These wounds run so deep and reopen so easily—blood all over the inside of my chest, seeping into my bones._

_But I had to do it without you. Just that one thing. I hope you can understand, and I promise that now I’m here, all stitched up and scarring over, I’ll never leave you again._

_Not by choice._

________________

**TONY**

They stop at _Wal-Mart_ because they’re in _Ohio_ and there’s nothing else for miles. Barnes leaves him in the car to pump gas, paying with what Tony is almost certain is cash stolen from the guards back in New York—which, good move, honestly. Tony keeps his head down as Barnes huddles up against the car, both of them watching the numbers on the pump tick higher. Barnes has a new baseball cap pulled over his eyes and a pair of amazingly unbroken sunglasses covers nearly half of his face.

Tony’s got blood on his shirt from where Barnes hit him. Dick. At least a quick check reveals that his head has stopped bleeding and he probably doesn’t need stiches.

God this whole thing is so surreal. Somewhere, Pepper and Rhodey are probably freaking out. He can’t check, though, because Barnes drained all the battery on his phone.

Again, _dick._

Barnes climbs back into the car. “We need some supplies.”

“You’re a dick,” Tony announces, holding up his dead phone.

Barnes reaches over and crushes it with his metal fist. Tony yelps as the pieces tumble into his lap. “Jesus! I was just stating facts. You don’t have to be a drama queen about it. Honestly, Terminator, use your words, okay?”

“Should have done that earlier,” Barnes mutters, turning on the car.

It takes Tony a moment but he gets there. “No one was going to track us through that. Trust me. The idea that anyone could is insulting.”

Barnes shrugs and pulls them into a parking space closer to the store. “Better safe than sorry.”

Tony’s head still hurts too much to argue. “I think you gave me a concussion.”

Barnes actually looks concerned about that, which Tony has no idea what to do with so he settles for following Barnes out of the car and pretending he’s a lot steadier on his feet than he actually is. Barnes glances at him, still with that stupid worried expression, and opens his mouth—probably to tell Tony to stay with the car, which, yeah, no.

“Nope.” He declares, shouldering past Barnes.

His head swims for the first few steps, but he’s fine after that. Totally.

The Wal-Mart is air conditioned ( _yes)_ and surprisingly crowded. He didn’t think people lived in rural Ohio. At least not by choice.

“Okay,” Barnes murmurs, head down and shoulders hunched. “We need food, clothes, and something for your head. Pick out a couple outfits and a pack. Meet back here in fifteen minutes. Avoid the cameras.”

Tony barely resists the urge to salute. “Aye, aye, captain. Oh wait, that isn’t you. Sorry.”

He’s pretty sure that Barnes is rolling his eyes behind those ridiculous sunglasses. He’s still not sure about this level of expression coming from a HYDRA death machine, but his chest is tight and his head hurts so he watches Barnes vanish into the grocery section and heads off to find some non-bloody, boring clothes.

He tracks cameras as he goes and keeps his gaze on the floor. No one pays him much attention. Maybe the news hasn’t reached rural Ohio yet. Maybe these people live in such a nice, safe bubble they don’t even know who Tony Stark is let alone that he’s now an internationally wanted fugitive.

Oh God.

His fingers clench around the t-shirt he’d randomly plucked from the rack as his lungs suddenly seize in terror again. And fuck, this is worse. He can’t afford to have an attack in the middle of Wal-Mart. People are definitely going to notice that, no matter how all-encompassing their bubble. He squeezes his eyes shut and exhales through his nose—long, measured breaths like the YouTube video on anxiety he will never admit to watching showed him.

Don’t think about it. Think about something else. He may not be Tony Stark anymore and Pepper and Rhodey are never, ever, going to forgive him but let’s focus on the positive here. He was so sick of that mansion. This is way more exciting, right? A new chapter in life. It’s going to be fine. Barnes is good at this shit, they won’t get caught and he won’t get thrown in a tiny cell for the rest of his life or put in front of a firing squad.

That’s definitely not going to happen.

There’s a snap and he blinks, realising that he’s broken the hanger. He can’t make his fingers uncurl and his breaths are sharp, staccato beats in his ears. Two aisles over, a large woman in a Disney t-shirt is eyeing him suspiciously.

And then Barnes is there, wrapping an arm around his shoulders like it’s nothing. “Darling,” he drawls, relaxed and easy. “There you are.”

What?

Barnes leans in closer, plucks the shirt from his hands and then takes the basket already full of clothes from his arm. “Good choices, babe. We should try them on. C’mon.”

He steers Tony towards the changing rooms. On the edge of his peripheral, Tony catches Disney Lady’s nose curling up in disgust. Gotta love rural American homophobia. Must be what Barnes is going for.

He’s still having trouble breathing. Fuck.

Barnes drags him into a changing stall and shuts the door. It’s cramped and Barnes is way too close and this whole thing is so freaking _embarrassing._

He was supposed to be over this.

“Stark,” Barnes says, hovering at his elbow, and Tony reaches out to shove him.

“Give me some space, Robocop.”

Barnes thankfully backs up a step, leaning against the flimsy wall. Tony blocks him out and puts his head between his knees.

In and out. In and out. Don’t think about anything, Stark, just breathe.

In and out.

The panic finally, _finally_ fades, crawling back into the dark corners of his mind he tries very hard not to disturb.

“Okay,” he says and his voice only wobbles a little. Good. “I’m fine. We’re not talking about this. Get out of my face.”

Barnes frowns. Tony glares. After a tense moment, Barnes shakes his head. “Meet me back at the car in five minutes.”

And then he’s gone, taking the basket of clothes with him.

Tony breathes a little bit more to remind himself that he can. He’s in control. He _is._ His fingers won’t stop trembling so he shoves them in the pockets of his jeans and slips out of the stall. No one’s around, except an elderly gentleman who takes in his rumbled appearance, mutters something about “heathens,” and ambles away. Tony still smooths down his shirt. His hair is probably beyond help. At least the blood probably matted in it doesn’t show up well in this light.

He makes it back to the car with thirty seconds to spare. There’s a new pack sitting next to Barnes’ in the back seat and as soon as he’s closed the door behind him, Barnes is shoving a water bottle and some pills in his face.

“For your head,” he mumbles. “And you should clean up your hair. And change your shirt.”

“Thanks, _mom_ ,” Tony drawls with as much sarcasm as he can muster to hide the sudden twist in his chest.

Damn it. Barnes isn’t making the whole hating him thing easy. Tony doesn’t approve.

He swallows the pills, though, and uses his ruined shirt to scrub the blood out of his hair.

 

________________

 

Ohio is unfolding before them in a riot of green—tree covered hills rolling out towards the horizon. It’s pretty, Tony grudgingly admits. The car is too silent. They’re both scared to turn on the radio again.

“So what’s the plan?” Tony asks when the quiet becomes unbearable. “Assuming you have one, that is.”

“I need to find a way to contact Steve,” Barnes says. “And we need to switch cars soon.”

“That’s _not_ a plan. Those are steps, very small steps. I’m asking for the whole picture here, Terminator.”

Barnes glares at him. He’s still wearing those stupid sunglasses so it doesn’t work at all. And then, with a jolt, Tony remembers the phone tucked into the pocket of his jeans. Black, old-fashioned—arrived in the mail a year ago along with a not very apologetic apology letter and Tony, like the absolutely _pathetic_ human being he is, has carried it around ever since. He’s always been sentimental. It’s a weakness.

Tony digs it out, somewhat amazed it’s survived this far, and holds it up to Barnes. Barnes arches an eyebrow. “Rogers sent it to me. Told me to call if I ever needed help because he’s a fucking polite, perfect person and also a very smug, self-righteous asshole, so here. Call him.”

Because Tony sure as hell isn’t going to. He still has a few scraps of pride left, thank you very much.

Barnes pulls off the road onto a wooded overlook, stopping the car in the protective shade of the trees, and reaches for the phone like a dying man after water. He’s about to dial when Tony grabs his wrist.

“Speaker,” he says. Barnes glares again and Tony scowls right back. “You wanna keep insisting that you didn’t kidnap me, then fine. That means you include me in the planning stuff. Got it?”

Barnes sighs, but puts the phone on speaker as he finishes dialling.

Rogers picks up on the second ring. _“Where the fuck is he, Tony?”_

Tony’s eyebrows make a sudden jump for his hairline.  He’s not sure whether to be shocked or delighted at hearing Captain America swear so vehemently.

“Oh my God.”

Rogers carries on, fury dripping from every word. _“If you’ve hurt him I swear to fucking God, Stark, I will rip you into such tiny fucking pieces that—”_

“Steve,” Barnes cuts in. “It’s me.”

_“Bucky?”_ The anger is gone, just like that. In its place is something deeper—fear and desperation and relief and just _more._ There’s a picture slowly forming in Tony’s head. “ _Thank God. Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”_

“I’m fine,” Barnes murmurs.

_“You’re lying,”_ Rogers fires back immediately. _“What did they do?”_

“I’m fine, Steve,” Barnes repeats. “I’m still here.”

There’s a shocked inhale on the other end of the line and Barnes closes his eyes, grimacing like he regrets the words that just left his mouth.

_“They tried to wipe you?”_ Rogers’ voice is deadly—horror and fury. And then he swears again, in French this time of all things. Tony only knows dirty words in French—because honestly what else is French for?—and, my God, Rogers just used _all of them._

This might be the greatest day of his life. “You know, that’s about two hundred bucks for the swear jar, Rogers.”

Rogers cuts off mid-word. “ _Tony? Did you fucking know about this?”_

“He didn’t,” Barnes cuts in before Tony can defend his honour. “He got me out, Steve.” He pauses and then says, quieter, “he saved my life,” and fuck Barnes needs to stop throwing all this _sentiment_ at him. It only sharpens the strange ache in his chest.

_“Tony did?”_ Steve sounds shocked, which is … not actually that surprising considering the past year, but still offensive.

“Yeah, Rogers. Believe it or not, torture doesn’t really do it for me.”

Barnes glares at him. He rolls his eyes back.

“Where are you?”

_“Europe,”_ Rogers replies, frustrating creeping back in. “ _We’ve been trying to get to you, Buck, I swear, but they had everything locked down so tight and—”_

“It’s fine,” Bucky cuts in. “It’s fine, Steve. I’m just glad you’re safe.”

The picture is getting clearer, but no. Surely not, right?

_“I’ll come for you. We’ll find a way. Just … lie low and—”_

“No,” Bucky interjects swiftly. “The whole damn country is looking for us, Steve. We’re coming to you. Just need a way out. Can you help with that?”

_“Of course. I’ll speak with the others. We’ll tap every contact we have, if need be. We’ll get you out, I promise.”_ A long pause. “ _Stark, too.”_

“Gee, thanks. I’m so touched, Rogers.”

Another glare from Barnes. God, so predictable.

“We’re going to keep driving south. I’ll keep this phone for now. Get in touch as soon as you have something?”

“ _Yes, of course. We’re already working on it, Buck. Just … just…”_ A frustrated huff of a breath and then Rogers’ voice goes gentler than Tony’s ever heard it. _“Just hang in there, love. Be safe.”_

Oh. Oh wow. Oh. My. God.

Picture whole and clear, but. Whoa. Tony swallows back the stunned shout that wants to escape his mouth. Rogers and Barnes? Wow. Certain things are making _way_ more sense now, but still.

Holy shit.

Barnes can clearly see all of this playing across his face because his shoulders hunch, defensive, and he lowers his voice. “I can take care of myself, Steve.”

_“I’m still going to worry.”_

Barnes smiles—this incredible, tender thing that Tony doesn’t think he should be seeing. It feels far too private and, well, _human_ and it’s for _Rogers,_ which is still short circuiting his brain.

“I love you, Punk,” Barnes says, smile sharpening into a smirk that still drips with far too much affection.

_“Jerk,”_ Rogers replies immediately—the other half of a well-worn exchange. _“Love you, too. Be safe. I’ll be in touch soon.”_

Barnes doesn’t say good-bye, just hangs up the phone and stuffs it in his pocket. He keeps his eyes fixed straight ahead as he pulls back onto the road and Tony tells himself that he shouldn’t make a big deal out of this, probably, but screw it.

This is fucking _huge_ and he needs a distraction.

“So you and Rogers are fucking?” He blurts. “That actually explains a lot.”

The steering wheel creaks beneath Barnes’ metal fingers. “We’re engaged,” he snaps. “And it’s none of your business.”

_Engaged?_ Holy shit. Of course, though. The ring around Barnes’ neck. Of course. God, he’s an idiot. Definitely should have seen this sooner. Fucking star crossed lovers, the two of them—willing to burn the world down for each other. Devotion like that doesn’t come from just being old war buddies.

“How long have you been together, then? Since before, right? Were you together before? Oh my God, Rogers never said anything. That would have been—can you imagine the press conferences? Captain America, pion of white masculinity, is _gay—_ ”

“Bi,” Barnes cuts in. “I’m gay. We’ve been together since 1935. And it’s still _none of your business,_ pal.”

Tony frowns at him. “It is, though, a little bit. He never said anything. Granted we’ve established that he’s a lying liar who lies, but still. Four years and he never mentioned you.”

“Would it have mattered if he did?”

Tony shrugs. Tries to imagine Pepper in this scenario—his last familiar thing, brainwashed and tortured and pointing a gun at his face without any recognition in her eyes. It _hurts,_ sharp and deep, one wound of the many lacerated across his heart, and he understands a little—more than he did before. He still would have been angry, heartbroken, and betrayed, that doesn’t change, but it might not have burned quite so much, seeing Rogers put himself between them and Barnes like they—the people who had fought and died with him for _years—_ were the enemies.

“Don’t know. Like I said, might have explained some things.”

Barnes sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. “It’s never been something we share. And then it didn’t matter. Steve died and I fucking _forgot_ and—it’s _ours,_ okay? We don’t have to explain it.”

Barnes’ shoulders are still tense. Contrary to popular belief, Tony does occasionally know when to shut up and let things lie.

“This conversation isn’t over,” he says and turns on the radio.

Jazz, fucking _jazz_ filters in, but they both leave it—scared to turn the dial and hear their names again.

 

________________

 

**BUCKY**

They ditch the car three miles out of the next town. Bucky pushes it off the road into a ravine and slides down after it to cover it with branches. He lingers there a moment, in the deepening shadows, and tries to catch his breath.

He still feels off-balance, disoriented. He looks at Stark and keeps seeing Howard. He closes his eyes and he can hear the screams, both of his victims and his own. He opens his mouth and Russian sits heavy on his tongue, ready to slide past his lips before his brain can switch back to English. His flesh fingers twitch and tremble and his left shoulder and arm ache with phantom pain.

He hasn’t slept in four days.

The burner phone is safe in his pocket and he focuses on Steve’s voice, asking him to hang on. Steve’s always been the thing that keeps him fighting, much more than his own battered survival instinct.

Stark is leaning against a tree when he climbs back up to the road, eyes closed. He looks pale and tired, but stable, for the moment. Bucky can recognise signs of shell shock—PTSD now, according to the numerous resources he and Steve have consumed over the past year—but he’s surprised to see them so evident in Stark. Perhaps he shouldn’t be. He’s read up on the Avengers, too, and he knows how many times Stark has put himself in the line of fire, how many times he almost didn’t walk back out again, especially New York.

It’s an unexpected complication, both of them falling apart like this, but Bucky figures as long as they manage to stagger their episodes they should be fine.

Ha—he can see almost Steve’s mother hen expression. Bucky’s pitch black sense of humour about his own trauma hasn’t completely caught on with Steve. But that’s good—for all he teases Steve about being a protective mama bear, the overwhelming kindness and caring Steve always presents where there was none before, for so fucking long, sparks warmth in his chest, down to his battered bones.

It’s this knowledge—how much it helps just to have one person you can trust to know when you’re not all right, who will sit with you when you’re breaking, and help you pick up the pieces after—that has him reaching out to Stark, trying to be as gentle as he can without turning condescending. It’s a delicate balance. Stark is like a wounded, proud animal—prickly and terrified and fierce all at once.

Sometimes, it’s like looking in a fucking mirror.

“Ready?” Bucky asks and Stark nods.

They walk, following the road from the safety of the forest. It’s almost completely dark now and Bucky leads, relying on his heightened senses to guide them around obstacles.

Stark is quiet for all of fifteen minutes.

“Did they want you to kill Rogers? Is that why there were doing the whole electroshock torture thing?”

God, why can’t Stark ask easier questions.

“Essentially.” He ducks a low hanging branch. “It’s how HYDRA used to wipe my memories.”

“Burning neural pathways with electricity,” Stark replies. “Makes sense. Not permanent, though.”

Bucky shakes his head. “Pothole, watch your step. And no. So they kept doing it. And then put me in cryo in between missions so my brain couldn’t heal itself.”

Stark is quiet for a long moment. Bucky wonders if being faced with his torture is changing Stark’s mind about the murder of his parents. He hopes so and then immediately feels guilty. He may not have been aware, but he _did_ murder them. Brutally, _viciously_. His lack of autonomy doesn’t erase the blood on his hands or the stains on his soul, no matter how many times Steve tries to convince him otherwise.

“How are you not a seething mass of rage right now?”

Bucky holds a branch out of the way for Stark to duck under and sighs. “I’m too tired to be angry. And besides, what’s the point? Bein’ angry isn’t gonna change anything or fix what they did. Waste of energy.”

“Very magnanimous of you,” Stark says, and Bucky doesn’t think he’s imagining the hints of sincerity buried beneath the sarcasm.

The distant lights of the town are getting brighter. “Besides, you pretty much blew up everyone responsible.”

Stark laughs—a harsh, grating sound. “True. And Rogers’ sudden fondness for excessive amounts of explosives is making a lot more sense now.”

They fall silent again as they reach the outskirts of the town. It’s quiet, but Bucky still feels exposed stepping into the light of the street lamps. From the way Stark’s gaze is darting nervously, the paranoia is shared.

They jack a car from the first parking lot they stumble across—a dark green Sedan this time, tucked in a far corner, away from the store front. Bucky still only starts breathing again when the town has faded into the distance. They’re getting close to the state line, the highway signs indicate—Ohio giving way to Indiana.

A protein bar lands in his lap and he starts, glancing over at Stark.

“You should eat something,” Stark says without meeting his eyes, taking a big bite of his own bar and grimacing. “Jesus, what do they make these things out of, sawdust?”

Bucky unwraps his own bar. It’s heavy and dry on his tongue, but he barely tastes it. Food loses meaning when the lines between him and the Soldier are blurring this much. Stark downs another painkiller and sighs, sinking down into his seat.

“You should sleep,” Bucky murmurs, but Stark stubbornly shakes his head.

“Nah, I’m good.” He reaches out and flicks on the radio again.

_“…no leads in the search for former HYDRA operative James Barnes or Avenger Tony Stark. The FBI and CIA are continuing their nationwide manhunt, and are involving state police forces, as well. People are encouraged to remain vigilant and cautious as both suspects are considered to be highly dangerous and potentially armed._

_“In other news, the African nation of Wakanda has unexpectedly stepped down from their key position on the UN Accords committee, designed to oversee all enhanced individuals worldwide, including the former and current Avengers. Wakanda has cited ethical and moral differences as the reason for this sudden move, but so far no further details have emerged. We will continue to report on the situation as it—”_

Stark twists the dial until another music station comes on and hunches back in his seat, breath coming in sharp bursts. He gets himself under control before Bucky can say anything—not that he would particularly know what to say.

The music of choice is pop this time, and Bucky lets the upbeat, pointless music calm his fraying nerves.

“Did you know my father?” Stark asks after a moment. “Before?”

Again with the hard questions, fuck.

“Yes,” Bucky murmurs, because he’s promised himself that he’s going to be honest with Stark. He owes the man that much, at least. “A little. I saw him at a fair once, in New York. He was showing off a flying car. Later, he helped with the war effort but we didn’t really speak much. Mostly he was there to help Steve, though he designed some of our weapons.” He hesitates and then offers, “You remind me of him.”

Stark scoffs. “Great.” A sharp sigh. “I hated him. He was a terrible father.”

Bucky doesn’t think he’s allowed to comment on that, but also is worried about staying silent. Stark is reaching out to him and he doesn’t want to make that seem like nothing. He deliberates for a moment and then adds, quiet, “You put yourself on the front lines, though. He never did that.”

“I’m not a soldier,” Stark snaps, glaring at him.

“Aren’t you?” Bucky fires back, because he’s seen the footage—New York, Sokovia, and long before that. Iraq, Afghanistan—Tony Stark has been stepping into the line of fire for years. It’s a bit of a wonder he’s still intact.

“No,” Stark insists. “I’m not.”

He turns away and pulls his cap down over his eyes. Conversation over, then.

On the radio, someone sings about love and drugs in a tune with a lot of grating, electronic beats. Bucky irritably twists the dial again until he finds a classical station. God, he fucking hates modern music.

He eats the rest of the protein bar and buries the exhaustion that is starting to creep into his muscles and brain. The forest is dark on either side of the road and Stark remains stubbornly silent in the passenger seat.

Bucky drives.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh, I said I wanted them to talk and they're definitely talking. I apologise if this is a bit slow for anyone. Things should pick up a little in the next chapter. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has read, commented, bookmarked, and left kudos. You all are the best. :) 
> 
> \- C x

“I am a badly drawn creature washed up on a littered shore

and hope is the shells, small and cool, into which we hermits

each morning retract the startling need of our claws.”

 

―  **Michael D. Snediker**

 

________________

 

**BUCKY**

According to the radio, authorities are tracking the stolen Toyota Corolla, but there’s no word about the green sedan. Bucky still plans on switching cars again soon. Better safe than sorry and with how tightly the border is locked down, it’s only going to get harder the further south they go.

Stark is driving now after a brief, heated argument by the side of the road. Bucky’s having trouble staying alert, but he doesn’t dare sleep. His nightmares are always violent and he doesn’t want to hurt Stark, who is human and fragile without his suit or a serum to protect him. If the terrors get bad enough, Bucky could easily snap his neck.

He still curls up in his seat and closes his eyes, easing his breath into a steady rhythm. He and Steve have been practicing meditation recently—another of the many techniques that is supposed to help with trauma, according to Steve’s endless research. Bucky humours him because a) he’s a lovesick idiot completely incapable of saying no to Steve Rogers and b) some of them actually _have_ helped.

Meditation does, surprisingly, especially when he’s exhausted and needs to conserve some energy. He used a similar technique when he was still the Soldier. Rest, but not quite. Enough to get by on, for now. According to past experiences his body will completely give out after seven days if he doesn’t sleep.

God, he wishes coffee still worked on him.

Stark is humming along to the radio, but the clock is ticking until he gets bored and starts chattering again. He doesn’t seem to care if Bucky doesn’t talk back, just needs something to fill the silence. Bucky is finding he doesn’t mind as much as he probably should, even when Tony keeps asking those invasive, blunt questions.

This time, Stark lasts a miraculous hour and sixteen minutes. It might be because Bucky hasn’t opened his eyes once and Stark thinks he’s asleep, but even a small sense of politeness can’t hold forever.

“Hey, Terminator,” Stark says, “your serial number—the one you were mumbling back in New York. That’s a 32 number, which means you were drafted.”

“God, how do you even _know_ that?” Bucky grumbles, sitting up and pulling the cap off his head. His hair is greasy in a way that’s starting to make him sick—too close to the state of disrepair he was kept in by HYDRA, who only ever bothered to hose the Asset down when he was starting to smell—ice cold water like he was _dog_ and—

He slams the lid closed on those thoughts and twists to dig around in his pack for a water bottle. Aware of Stark’s eyes flicking to him every few seconds, he runs a wet hand through his hair, cleaning it a little, and splashes more water on his face.

“I like knowing things,” Stark continues when Bucky is screwing the lid back on the water bottle. Bucky approves of this silent agreement they’ve developed not to comment on each other’s issues. “And I _also_ know that according to the Smithsonian you enlisted after Pearl Harbor. But I’m thinking drafted is the true scenario here, am I right?”

Fuck, he’s trying to be honest, isn’t he?

Goddamnit.

“Yes,” he says, though it comes out more like a sigh. “I was drafted.”

He hadn’t wanted to go. It had just been him and Steve by then—both of their families lost to war, sickness, and other tragedies—and the thought of Steve on his own in that God-awful tenement with his perpetual cough and asthma and bouts of illness had absolutely _terrified_ him. He’d seriously thought about burning his papers when they arrived, but wouldn’t have been able to face Steve, who was already so determined to enlist, if he did. So he went and he was good at shooting things and they made him a fucking sergeant because of it and that was that.

He doesn’t tell any of this to Stark because sometimes that life in the 30s and 40s— that time labelled ominously Before—is harder to talk about than HYDRA or everything that came after. As the years tick by here that sepia-toned past plastered all over museums and history books starts to feel less and less real and more and more like a strange dream.

“Doesn’t really seem to fit the narrative,” Stark continues. “The Howling Commandos are like the epitome of heroic patriotism and none more so than James Buchanan Barnes, the only one to give his life in service to his country.” Tony’s voice changes during the last part, mimicking an announcer—or that stupid Smithsonian exhibit—and Bucky huffs out a derisive laugh.

“Hardly. That’s history’s narrative, pal, not mine.”

“So what’s your narrative, then?”

He arches a suspicious eyebrow at Stark, who is definitely refusing to make eye contact with him. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t-I’m bored and you’re the one that dragged me on this _delightful_ road trip, so spill.”

Bucky frowns. He’s never talked about this with anyone, not even Steve, who was there for most of it and not at the same time—too caught up in being Captain America to the notice Bucky’s slow disintegration in the shadows.

But it sits, heavy in his chest: this knowledge that history has decided who they are, what they lived and died for, without them. And it’s not like Stark is going to hate him more than he already does. Or particularly care about issues that are now over seventy years old.

“Fine,” he grumbles. He rakes an agitated hand through his hair. It’s probably standing up all over the place, which Steve insists is adorable. Bucky hates him.

“I’m not that patriotic,” he fumbles for an easy explanation that doesn’t involve being a Jewish, gay, impoverished punk from Brooklyn who took dames out dancing all the time but always went home and climbed into bed with his very male, Irish, Catholic partner. After a moment of mounting panic, he blurts out, “I fucking hate Captain America.”

Stark glances at him, eyebrows high and expression _delighted,_ oh God— _this_ is why he doesn’t talk anymore if he can help it. “ _Really?_ Do elaborate.”

Bucky sighs, sharp, and rubs his face. “People don’t understand,” he starts, choosing his words carefully, “why Steve wanted to sign up. It wasn’t for God and country. He was the son of Irish immigrants, Catholic, bisexual—not that we really had a proper word for it back then—and in love with a Jewish man. God and country didn’t want him. He enlisted because, well, he _definitely_ had something to prove, the fucking idiot, but mostly he’d always believed that his illness shouldn’t excuse him from anything. Other men were laying down their lives, so he should do the same.”

Stark glances at him. “You’re Jewish? And Rogers is still sounding way too perfect for my tastes, please tell me you aren’t just going to sit there gushing about him because I refuse to listen to that and I _will_ play the most obnoxious music I can find on this shit radio in retaliation.”

“On my mother’s side,” Bucky replies. “And no. Just _listen.”_

Stark rolls his eyes but stays quiet.

“So he enlists, because he wants to do the right thing. And a bunch of _idiots_ take him, even though he weighs about ninety pounds soaking wet, and they give him that fucking serum. Which, fine, that wasn’t the goddamn problem. He was _healthy,_ he wasn’t dying anymore, and I was so glad about that once I got over the urge to kill him for lying to me about enlisting, the little shit. It was the fucking burden that came _with_ the serum. First they made him a dancing monkey on a stage and then they stuck him in that _stupid_ outfit and gave him a goddamned _Frisbee_ for a weapon and just … threw him onto the frontlines with a target on his back like he was fucking invincible.

“They made him _Captain America,_ the fucking face of the American war effort, and they erased Steve Rogers in the process. Because Captain America couldn’t be Irish or Catholic or in love with another man. And Captain America is who history was gonna remember. This perfect, wholesome fucking indestructible American icon, not the skinny, reckless firebrand that I … I loved.”

He sucks in a deep breath, a little stunned at himself—the rest of his words tangled up in his throat. Fuck, he hadn’t meant to be that candid. He stuffs his flesh hand in the pocket of his hoodie to stop the trembling and tries to quell the instinctive panic that’s creeping up his spine. He’s never talked about Steve, the vulnerable heart of him, with _anyone_ and he just opened the door to Tony _fucking_ Stark of all people.

God, he’s such an idiot.

Stark is uncharacteristically silent for a long, gut-wrenching moment. Then he says, conversationally, “I hated him, too. Dear old dad would never shut up about him. God, it was annoying—never being able to measure up to a dead man. And then meeting him person … do you ever want to punch him? I want to punch him all the time. He’s just so put together and … _starched,_ it’s insufferable.”

Bucky snorts. “Of course I want to punch him. He’s a goddamn reckless shit for brains who always thinks he’s right, never walks away from a fight, even when he _should,_ and is so fucking stubborn that nothing short of a fucking act of God could move him and even then I have doubts.”

Stark laughs, open and shockingly genuine, and then freezes. “Oh God,” he says, sounding slightly horrified. “We’re _bonding,_ aren’t we? This is totally bonding. We’re stuck together on some kind of demented road trip and we’re _bonding._ I’ve seen about fifty movies with this premise. I’m developing Stockholm Syndrome.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “For the last time, Stark, I _didn’t kidnap you._ Your AI even helped me.”

“Which is why I am totally donating her to charity as soon as possible,” Stark fires back. He pauses and then huffs. “And you’re not supposed to be this human. Stop being human, Terminator.”

“I wasn’t human for seventy years,” Bucky puts his feet up on the dash just for Stark’s annoyed look and smiles at him, grim. “I ain’t going back to that, pal.”

Stark glowers at him, but there’s hints of amusement shining through.

Bonding, indeed.

Stark leans over and turns the radio back up. It’s another overly synthesized pop song, with a chorus about Anacondas and buns that makes absolutely no sense. Bucky reaches for the radio dial only for Stark to smack his hand away.

“Nah-ah, Robocop. Driver picks the music, that’s the rules. Don’t make me pull this car over.”

Bucky scowls at him and Stark grins right back, taunting and painfully fake.

Never mind. He takes it back. Bonding is never going to happen.

 

________________

 

They exchange the sedan for a Ford pickup truck and leave Indiana behind for Illinois. Stark grumbles about everything from the endless corn fields to the boring colour of the car and then pulls them into a roadside motel at three am because he’s sick of the car and he wants a shower.

Bucky, who is now considering dumping an entire bottle of water over his head to combat the feelings of disgust and panic gradually fraying his nerves to threads, doesn’t protest. An elderly Latina woman is manning the front desk of the dive and Bucky dredges up a charming smile as he asks her for a room.

He knows he’s handsome, knows he turns heads (though he understands less now with his scars and his arm and the shadows in his eyes he can’t hide), and even if it doesn’t come naturally anymore he still knows how to flirt with the best of them. Three minutes later, the lady—Guadalupe, she tells him with a bright smile—is handing over a set of keys, profusely apologising that they don’t have a room with two beds, and insisting that she won’t charge them for extra towels.

He takes the key with a wink and wave that belong to another life, another version of him, and turns back to Stark.

The man is gaping at him.

He frowns, wondering if his flirtatious act looks _that_ strange now, and hates the rush of self-conscious uncertainty that heats his face.  “What?”

“You speak fluent Spanish?” Stark says and Bucky blinks, rewinding the conversation with Guadalupe and realising that shit, he does.

He shrugs, defensive, and leads the way to their room. “I guess so.”

“What do you mean, you _guess_ so?” Stark demands, hovering at his shoulder as he unlocks the door. “Do languages just randomly pop into your head?”

“Yes,” Bucky grumbles. “They show up when I need them. HYDRA didn’t just rip stuff out.”

Of course, they shoved in combat training, weapons skills, and ten fucking trigger words, too, but at least the language thing is harmless and useful. It’s gotten them out of some tough scrapes in the past year and it never fails to amuse Steve.

He suspects that Steve actually thinks it’s hot and just hasn’t worked up the courage to say anything yet because he’s a fucking mother hen who still treats Bucky like a delicate flower sometimes.

“Convenient,” Stark mutters, shouldering past him into the room.

He wrinkles his nose at the general disgusting state of it and then makes a beeline for the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

Bucky rolls his eyes—it’s becoming a habit—and sinks into the lone chair by the window. It gives an ominous creak, but holds his weight. He’s afraid he’ll fall asleep if he sits on the bed, so he settles for kicking his feet up on the window sill and counting the stains on the fading ceiling.

He’s gotten to a truly revolting fifteen when the burner phone buzzes in his pocket.

He nearly breaks the thing trying to extract it from his jeans, but as soon as he manages to press it to his ear he breathes, “Steve,” like the utter sap he is.

“ _Yasha,_ ” Natasha’s voice answers, managing to sound both business-like and warm in a way only she can.

He leans back in the chair again, switching easily to Russian. The language terrifies him in other circumstances but has always been comforting with Natasha, something to bind them together beyond terrible pasts and a bullet in Odessa. “Natalia. Is Steve okay?”

_“He’s fine. We just finally got him to sleep. And I wanted to tell you how horrible you are for leaving him with us.”_

Bucky’s mouth pulls up into a real smile. “He’s doing the whole wounded puppy thing, isn’t he? No one can mope like Steve Rogers.”

 _“It’s the most depressing thing I’ve ever seen,”_ Natasha replies. _“You owe us, Barnes.”_

“I’ll make it up to you.”

 _“You’d better.”_ She goes quiet for a moment and then, careful, “ _Steve said they tried to wipe you.”_

Bucky closes his eyes. Of course Steve told them. “Yes. I’m fine.”

“ _Right,”_ Natasha replies, voice heavy with sarcasm. “ _Of course you are. I’m an idiot for worrying.”_

She rarely admits that so candidly—how much she cares. He remembers seeing her again for the first time after Siberia and how terrified he was because he’d shot her, _twice,_ and then nearly choked her to death, but she had told him (in Russian) that if he bought her a drink (or several) they’d be even. Thus came an evening of drinking the strongest vodka they could find in a dingy bar in Kiev. Halfway through she told him about the Red Room and he’d reached for her hand on blind instinct, holding on like a lifeline because here was someone who _understood,_ in ways Steve never would be able to. Someone who had been unmade and remade and stripped down to nothing but a weapon yet had managed to claw her way to freedom. She’d gripped back just as tightly, as selfishly grateful as he was, and well, they’d had each other’s backs ever since.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, because they don’t lie to each other—that’s part of the deal. “I’m a fucking mess, Natalia. But I can’t … I’ll fall apart later. It’s too dangerous right now.”

There’s a faint _click_ as the bathroom door opens and Stark leans in the frame, dressed in fresh clothes and hair sticking up. He’s got his inquisitive expression on and Bucky figures he must have overhead at least some of the conversation so far.

 _“You can buy me a drink when you get here and we’ll deal with it then, Yasha.”_ She hesitates and then adds, almost gentle, “ _Whatever you need.”_

“I know. Thank you.”

 _“We’re trying to get in touch with Lang,”_ Natasha continues, back to business. “ _We think he might be your best option for getting over the border. We’ll call back as soon we hear something.”_

“Okay.”

_“Try not to kill Stark in the meantime.”_

“I’ll do my best. No promises, though.”

  _“At least nothing permanent.”_

“No promises. Tell Steve to pull his head out of his ass. I can fucking handle myself. Honestly, it’s insulting. I’m _not_ his fucking damsel.”

Natasha laughs. _“I’ll pass on the message.”_

They hang up without saying good-bye and Stark moves to sit on the bed, frowning at him. “Russian? Was that Romanoff? She with Rogers?”

Bucky nods. “They’re trying to get in touch with Lang.”

“Shrinking guy? Why?”

Bucky shrugs. “He might have some connections over the border. They’ll call back when they know.”

“Do you two seriously sit around and talk Russian to each other? Do you drink vodka and sharpen your knives, too? God that’s terrifying. Who allowed the two of you to be friends?”

“I needed someone to clean weapons and complain about capitalist pigs with—it was a natural choice.”

Stark snorts, but the amusement is back. They may actually be bonding, horrible music choices aside.

Bucky stands, slipping the burner phone back into his pack. “You better not have used all the hot water, Stark.”

Stark snorts again. “ _What_ hot water?”

Oh great.

Bucky makes it through the icy shower without a flashback but it’s a close thing—he has to bend over the sink and breathe for a few long moments and his metal hand digs cracks into the cheap porcelain. He makes a note to leave some extra cash as he shrugs a jacket over his shoulders and risks a look in the mirror. He’s several shades paler than normal, even under the tan he’s acquired after over a year living in mostly in warmer, tropical places, and his eyes are bloodshot. The various cuts and bruises from the guards and the chair are gone, but he can still feel them—the bloody marks where the gag cut into the edges of his mouth, the taste of it and rubber on his tongue.

He shudders and focusses on drying off his hair. Short like this it tends to curl and he remembers slicking it back, in another life, but neither he nor Steve bother with that now.

He’d probably have an epic meltdown if there was wax in his hair, anyway.

When he exits the bathroom, Stark is sitting on the end of the bed, staring at the TV. There’s nothing but static on the screen but Stark doesn’t seem to notice—gaze turned inward and far away.

Bucky kicks him gently in the ankle when he walks past and Stark jerks like someone’s punched him.

“We should keep going,” Bucky says once Stark’s eyes have focused on him. Being in one place this long is already making him paranoid.

Stark nods and rubs a hand over his face. “Right. This place is disgusting, anyway. I think that’s blood on the carpet over there and I _don’t_ want to know what’s on the ceiling directly above my head, just that if it somehow drips I’m not going to be pleased.”

Bucky leaves some cash on the counter with a note in Spanish apologising for the sink and they slip away without checking out. In the car, Stark curls in on himself and goes to sleep—lines of tension sharp around his mouth and in the corners of his eyes.

 

________________

 

**TONY**

“…so basically the idea is that the device hijacks the hippocampus to clear traumatic memories. Helps you change them into something less horrifying or terrible, easier to deal with.”

Barnes glances at him from the driver’s seat, a dubious expression on his face. “And you’ve named it _BARF_?”

“I’m working on the acronym. That’s seriously all you took away from that?”

“That and it cost six hundred and eleven _million dollars.”_

“God,” Tony grumbles, “You’re worse than Rogers.”

Barnes shakes his head, but still ventures, “So, are you actively changing memories?”

He sounds extremely worried about the prospect but, right, HYDRA, horrific decades of bastardised electroshock therapy—makes sense. “No. You won’t forget the old memories. You’re just making a new one that you can focus on instead. For example, take a situation that you regret or wish you could change.”

Barnes shoots him an incredulous look. “Sorry, discount the decades spent as a HYDRA murder bot, okay? Like … a moment where you wanted to say something but didn’t or did and regretted it and it haunts you. You keep going back to it thinking ‘if only’ and that’s a wound you can’t close because you’ll never have the chance to do it right. With BARF—don’t laugh, Barnes, this is very important science here—with BARF you can live that ‘if only’ moment. You can say what you should have, or do something differently. It lets you see it and experience it like a real memory. And then, you can focus on that one when you can’t sleep at night instead of the traumatic one.”

Barnes frowns, mulling this over. He’s sharp, Tony has begun to realise over the course of this conversation, _very_ sharp and something of a nerd, which Tony has no idea what to do with but might possibly be one of the greatest things ever.

Fuck, he’s genuinely starting to like Barnes. Someone shoot him.

“I guess I can see the point of it.”

“Out with the ‘but,’ Terminator.”

“But isn’t that just ignoring your trauma?” He asks. “You’re changing what happened. You’re erasing it. So instead of looking at the moment and going, ‘yeah, if only I did this, but I didn’t and I have to learn to live with that,’ you’re fixing your mistakes or your regrets. That’s not dealing with your wounds, that’s pretending they’re not bleeding.”

“It’s easier,” Tony argues back. “This makes dealing with all that shit easier. Shouldn’t that be how recovery works?”

“Maybe,” Barnes concedes. “But the wounds are a part of you who are. I don’t think you should ignore them. They make you … you.”

“No they don’t,” Tony cuts in, harsh. He thinks of Ultron, of New York, the cold blackness of space and Loki with a hand around his throat, a cave in Afghanistan, a bunker in Siberia, rubble on his chest and the ocean filling his lungs. “They destroy you. They make you _less,_ not better. They take away from what you can be.”

Barnes is quiet for several beats, a thoughtful look on his face. And fuck, Tony has learned him well enough in the past few weeks to know that he’s gathering his thoughts, carefully arranging them into want he wants to say.

Tony lets him.

“They fucking hurt,” he agrees at last. “But, they’re also evidence that we’ve _survived_. And what we’ve given up along the way, because survival is _never_ fucking pretty, no matter what anyone says. We survive by sacrificing parts of ourselves, carving up our fucking souls, and we shouldn’t forget that. My wounds … I’m fucking full of ‘em. There’s so many I wonder sometimes how I’m still _breathing_ , but I have to carry them because they remind me of the things I’ve _done_ and never, ever want to do again. Without that … I’d just be a fucking empty shell. I need to feel them because they make me goddamn human. They’re my victories and my losses and without ‘em, I wouldn’t be _me.”_

He fixes Tony with a look that goes straight through him. “And you wouldn’t be you.”

There’s a crack in Tony’s armour that Barnes has somehow peeled open and _damn it,_ all of his usual deflections are failing him. “Fuck, Barnes. You should write a book or something.”

Barnes laughs, mirthless, and shakes his head.

They sit in slightly stunned silence for a moment while Tony tries to get his equilibrium back. He’s never talked with anyone about this, not even Pepper or Rhodey, but it makes sense that it’s Barnes, somehow. A former HYDRA assassin, brainwashed or no, isn’t going to judge him for all the dirt and blood on his hands.

“I’ve been wondering,” Barnes says into the stillness. “Whatever happened to flying cars?”

Tony takes the out for what it is. “Oh, there are still prototypes lying around, but c’mon, have you seen what people do with cars on the _ground?_ There is no way we’re giving idiot drivers access to the sky. And there were more important things to do, like develop games that go into your phone so you’ll never be bored on the toilet again. Now _that’s_ true progress, Barnes, I dare you to tell me otherwise.”

Barnes laughs again, softer and more genuine. It’s a good look on him. “Angry Birds _is_ kind of addicting.”

“See? Welcome to the future.”

“A fascinating, terrifying, and fucking strange place.”

“No arguments there, buddy.”

The quiet that settles this time is surprisingly comfortable.


	6. Chapter 6

“No words to explain or contain it.

You can’t translate something

that was never in a language

in the first place.”

―  **Chase Twichell**

 

________________

 

**TONY**

The car swerves with a screech of tires and Tony jerks awake, gasping—heart just about ready to pound out of his chest.

“Sorry,” Barnes mumbles, straightening them out. Once Tony has recovered from his almost heart attack, he blinks over at Barnes, struggling to see in the dim light.

Barnes looks washed out, ghost-like, and he’s slumped over the wheel like he’s about to collapse. Right. “Pull over.”

Barnes shakes his head. “I’m fine.”

“ _Pull over.”_

Barnes blows out a frustrated breath but obeys, stopping the car on the wide highway shoulder. “Out,” Tony says, unbuckling his seatbelt. “You’re switching with me. You need to sleep.”

Barnes shakes his head again, more adamant. “No, I can’t sleep. It’s too dangerous. I’ll be fine.”

Tony barely resists the urge to reach over and physically shake him. That probably wouldn’t end well for all parties. So he settles for giving the biggest, most exaggerated eye roll he can muster. “You aren’t _actually_ a robot, Terminator. You’re about two seconds away from fainting like an overwhelmed maiden in a fairy-tale so get out. I’m driving and you’re going to sit in this ridiculously uncomfortable passenger seat and _sleep._ We’ll be fine.”

He makes a shooing motion and Barnes finally complies with another frustrated sigh.

They swap places and Tony eases them onto the road, turning music on to the most soothing station he can find. It’s fucking jazz, but whatever, jazz is supposed to be relaxing, right? He thinks Bruce likes jazz.

Barnes is asleep in five minutes.

And awake again an hour later, jolting upright with a scream and punching straight through the windshield.

Glass shatters, digging into Tony’s skin. He shouts in alarm, instinctively throwing up his arms to cover his eyes, and the car swerves violently off the road—straight into the fucking woods. Tony grabs for the wheel again but shit _shit_ too late _too late—_

The impact crushes the front of the car and something snaps in his wrist, agony lancing up his arm. His forehead smacks into the steering wheel and the air bag slams into his chest hard enough to knock all of the air from his lungs.

He stays there for a moment, stunned. Something warm and wet— _blood?—_ is dripping down his face. Next to him, Barnes kicks the passenger door straight off its hinges and panic freezes all of his blood.

( _His father’s bones cracking beneath Barnes’ fist and fingers wrapping around his mother’s throat as she sobs—_ )

He struggles, desperate to be free of the dangerous confines of the car, but his seatbelt is stuck, pinning him in place like a butterfly on a wall, and he can’t move his left hand without nearly whiting out from pain, and shit, _shit_ this is bad, this—

His door screeches as it’s wrenched opened and a metal hand rips his seatbelt in two before yanking him from the vehicle. He cries out as his— _broken, shit I think it’s broken—_ wrist smacks into the side of the car and then he’s being dumped onto the wet earth. He rolls up over and stares up at the barrel of a gun. On the other end of the gun is Barnes—blue eyes wide and glazed, trapped somewhere else.

Tony thinks, almost absently, that he’s never been so terrified in his fucking life. Not even carrying an atomic missile into an alien wormhole.

“Barnes?” He rasps, lifting his good hand in what he hopes is a totally placating, non-threatening gesture. “Barnes, it’s me.”

Barnes replies in Russian. It sounds like a question, but Tony has absolutely no idea how to answer it.

“It’s Tony Stark,” he tries again, keeping his voice as calm as he can. “You’re safe. We’re having a little road trip, remember? I broke you out of prison in New York. It’s 2017. You’re safe.”

More Russian. Fuck, where is Romanoff when you need her.

“Barnes. _Bucky._ Please put down the gun, okay, buddy? It’s Tony. You’re … you’re okay. Just put down the gun.” His voice finally cracks and he swallows against the fear drying up his lungs and seeping into his bones.

 _Something_ registers, _thank God,_ and Barnes drops the gun into the dirt. His eyes don’t clear, though, and he crumples in on himself like a piece of paper, curling up in a ball with his hands clutching his head. He’s babbling in Russian and what Tony thinks is German and shaking so hard it looks painful—coming apart at all of his edges.

Fuck, _fuck_ Tony doesn’t know what to do. This is so far beyond him it’s almost comical. With a jolt he remembers the phone, seeing Barnes stuff it in his pack earlier. He fights his way through his own paralyzing panic and pushes himself up with his good hand, staggering back to the ruined car.

He manages to pull the passenger door open and has to crawl back into the wreckage to get the pack from where it’s now wedged under a seat. Adrenaline and terror have numbed the pain in his arm at least and that makes extracting the damn thing a hell of a lot easier. He dumps the pack on the ground and begins fumbling through the pockets. Barnes is still muttering to himself, repeating the same thing over and over again. For the first time in his life, Tony regrets not knowing Russian.

“C’mon, c’mon…”

He finally finds the phone and presses dial with trembling fingers.

 _“Bucky?”_ Rogers says, sounding half-asleep and half-terrified.

“Your boyfriend, fiancé, whatever is having some kind of fucking psychotic breakdown and you need to fix it.”

“ _Tony?”_ Rogers is fully awake now. “ _Tony, what’s—_ ”

“Just talk to him,” Tony snaps, dropping to his knees in front of Barnes and putting the phone on speaker.

He sets it next to Barnes, who doesn’t even look at him, and then backs up to a safe distance, scooping up the gun. He debates for a moment and then unloads it, because fuck, wow, he doesn’t want to shoot Barnes, doesn’t want to _hurt_ Barnes at all, and that’s … something to process later.

 _“Bucky?”_ Steve is saying. “ _Buck, can you hear me? C’mon, pal, come back to me. You’re safe, you’re not there anymore, remember?”_

Barnes rattles off something in Russian, but it seems to be different than whatever he was chanting before so hopefully that’s progress.

 _“No,”_ Steve says, sounding choked up. _“It’s Steve, sweetheart. Steve, remember? You’re coming to me. You’re with Tony and you’re coming to me. I’m here. I’m okay. I’m **safe,** I promise, Buck.” _

“Steve,” Barnes rasps, finally switching back to English. His eyes are starting to clear. “Steve.” He moans faintly. “Steve, I‘ve finally cracked it-I‘ve gone off the deep end, Stevie.”

His accent is all 1930s Brooklyn and it would be hilarious if there wasn’t so much despair coating every damn word. God, he almost wants to hug Barnes. Ugh. What an utter shitshow.

“ _No, Buck, you’re okay. Just a bad flashback. That’s all. You’re gonna be fine.”_

 _“Steve,”_ Bucky hiccups and darts a glance at Tony before shuddering, squeezing his eyes shut. “ _Howard’s_ here.”

Tony recoils, feeling like someone’s punched him hard enough to crack his ribs.

 _“No.”_ At least Rogers sounds equally stunned. _“Oh God, no, sweetheart. You’re not hallucinating. That’s … that’s Tony, remember? Howard’s son Tony. He was with you in New York. He got you out. Try to remember, Buck. Istanbul? New York?”_

Bucky blinks. “R-Ross…”

_“That’s right. But you got out. You’re coming to me, to us—me, Natasha, Clint, and Sam. You and Tony.”_

Comprehension dawns on Barnes’ face, followed quickly by horror as he takes in the wrecked car and then lands on Tony.

“Oh God,” he moans again. “Oh god. I wrecked the car. I _hurt_ you.” Tony has zero percent capacity to handle the open _devastation_ on Barnes’ face. He looks completely sick with himself and okay, yeah, Tony has to do something.

“I’m fine,” he insists.

“You’re _bleeding.”_

“Just some cuts and a broken wrist. Totally minor stuff, Terminator.”

Barnes chokes on a wet inhale. “Oh God, _fuck …_ ‘m sorry, 'm so sorry. Fuck…”

Tony desperately hopes he doesn’t start sobbing. He really, really can’t handle a crying ex-murder bot right now.  Nope.

“ _Bucky...”_ Steve is trying over the phone, but Barnes seems to have tuned him out, scuttling back into his shell.

Also nope.

“Barnes.” Tony scoots closer and, taking a blind risk, reaches out and puts a hand on Barnes’ arm. Barnes flinches like he’s been burned but doesn’t pull away. “Bucky. I’m fine, okay? This isn’t your fault. I mean, you warned me and everything. One time I had such a bad nightmare that I activated one of my suits and scared the living daylights out of Pepper. Shit happens, yeah? We’re okay, we’re _fine,_ just calm down because you’re freaking me out and we can’t both have panic attacks at the same time—that’s too pathetic even for us. So just breathe. I don’t blame you.”

He’s not really aware of what he’s saying and he’s absolutely terrible at this whole emotional comfort shtick. Does he leave his hand where it is? Rub Barnes’ arm? Or is that creepy? Fuck, his wrist hurts and there’s drying blood on his face that’s starting to itch. Barnes is leaning into him a little, is that a good thing?

 _“He’s right,”_ Rogers says and Tony doesn’t even have the energy to marvel about them agreeing on something for the first time in, well, ages. “ _It’s not your fault, Buck. Ross … none of this is your fault, you hear me? We’ve been over this, pal. Stop with the self-loathing right now.”_

Bucky sobs out a laugh. “Yes, ma’am.”

He’s starting to sound more like himself and Tony takes his hand away, feeling suddenly awkward. They’re not friends, they’re not even supposed to like each other and he probably just crossed a dozen of Barnes’ weird, paranoid boundaries. But Barnes smiles at him—this tiny, grateful, utterly _heart-breaking_ thing—and Tony’s panicked thoughts stutter to a stop.

And then he says “thank you,” wholly sincere and fuck, Tony isn’t equipped to deal with shit like this. He manages a jerky nod and opens his mouth to suggest that they just sit for a moment, catch their breath, when sirens wail in the distance.

Bucky’s eyes widen and then narrow. Just like that, he’s back—focused. “I’ve gotta go, Steve.”

 _“Be safe,”_ Steve replies. _“Call me when you’re safe.”_

“I will.”

Barnes pockets the phone and shoulders his pack. Tony’s head is spinning, a little, and he frowns as Barnes crouches in front of him. “I’m so sorry,” he murmurs and then reaches out, touching gentle fingers to Tony’s temple. “Did you hit your head?”

“On the steering wheel, but not too hard,” Tony admits and bats Barnes’ hands away. “I’m _fine._ Jesus. Stop worrying, Robocop.”

The sirens are almost deafening now—blue and red lights flashing bright in the gloom of the trees.

“We have to go,” Barnes says like it isn’t obvious and pulls him to his feet. He fixes Tony’s pack onto his shoulders, handling Tony’s injured hand with the same gentle, overwhelming care, and then he’s pulling Tony into the trees while Tony struggles to get his bearings back.

He still feels like an attack of potentially epic proportions is waiting in the wings, but it can damn well be patient. He has more important things to do right now.

The cop car is parked up on the road and he can hear the crackle of a radio—the bang of a door. Barnes is leading them deeper into the woods, but stops so suddenly that Tony crashes into his back.

“Christ! What…?”

They’re standing on the edge of a deep ravine. Tony can’t see the bottom in the dark, but it stretches horizontally a long fucking way. They’re not going to be able to cross it.

Shit.

“Shit,” Barnes mutters.

He tilts his head, as if listening, and Tony wonders a bit hysterically if Barnes can actually _hear_ whatever is going on back at the wreck.

“They’ve run the plates and called for backup,” Barnes says and that answers that question, wow.

“God, you’re like a bat,” he mutters.

Barnes just pulls him along again, parallel to the road. More sirens wail. Back towards the wreck there’s now flickering flashlight beams moving amongst the trees. Tony reminds himself to breathe, _breathe._

“They’re fanning out into the woods,” Barnes whispers to him. “Stick close and be as quiet as possible. We need to cross the road and shake them.”

Tony nods and tells himself to focus. They can do this. They’ve definitely got this. It’s going to be fine.

Five minutes later, Tony steps on possibly the loudest stick in existence. The _snap_ echoes through the woods like a gunshot as Barnes whirls to stare at him with wide, disbelieving eyes, and up ahead there’s a distant burst of radio chatter, followed by _all_ the fucking flashlight beams flicking in their direction. Barnes practically lifts Tony off his feet dragging him behind a tree.

“Stay here,” Barnes hisses, pressing him against the bark. “I’ll be right back.”

He looks terrifying in the dull moonlight—blood on his face standing out sharp against the pale of his skin, blue eyes almost black from the shadows, like some kind of angel of death. Yet, somehow, instinctively, Tony knows he isn’t going to kill anyone.

 _Be careful,_ he almost says, but manages to swallow it back at the last instant because he’s not ridiculous or Steve Rogers and let’s be honest, Barnes is going to curb stomp these poor idiots.

Barnes melts into the darkness and Tony crouches at the base of the tree, ducking into a large bush. His arm is throbbing from wrist all the way up to shoulder and he winces as the leaves scrape against the cuts on his face and arms. There’s a shout, suddenly, piercing the stillness and the flashlights start waving wildly.

And then disappearing, one by one—like candles rapidly extinguished. God Barnes is scarily efficient.

It takes less than three minutes, start to finish. Besides that first initial yell of surprise the only sounds are the snap of underbrush and the faint thuds of bodies hitting the the ground—until a sudden burst of gunfire nearly makes Tony jump out of his skin.

Another _thud_ quickly follows the cacophony of sound and then, just like that, stillness again, so thick and absolute it feels almost oppressive. Tony stands as Barnes rematerializes. The bastard isn’t even breathing heavily, but he does pause to lean against a tree for a moment, eyes closed.

Tony lets him piece his armour back together, turning away to give him some privacy, and carefully prods his swollen wrist. He hisses at the spike of pain that jolts up his arm. Fuck, definitely broken, then. Perfect. Barnes glances at him, brows knit together in worry, and Tony straightens his shoulders.

“We should keep moving.”

They can deal with everything else once they’re far, far away from here. God, he hates Illinois way more than Ohio now.

“We need another car,” Barnes says as they start walking again. “I radioed back to the station that everything was fine, but that won’t hold for long.”

“Stealing one might be too risky right now,” Tony points out breathlessly. Barnes is setting a punishing pace that Tony’s various aches and pains is not liking at _all._

Barnes makes a sound of agreement and then they walk. And walk. And fucking _walk_ until Tony’s knees are starting to get worryingly weak, but hey, at least his arm has gone numb. To top it all off, thunder is rumbling ominously overhead, because Tony is starting to believe that the Universe somehow actually hates him.

Rain has just started to fall—big, fat drops that smack heavy and _cold_ against his skin—when Barnes signals for him to stop and _sniffs the air_ like some kind of bloodhound. He changes direction and Tony follows blindly, blinking in surprise when the trees suddenly clear and they’re standing in the middle of a narrow dirt road.

“Wait here,” Barnes says, drawing the pistol that Tony didn’t even realise he’d shoved back into his belt before the cops arrived.

“Fuck, again? Seriously?” Tony snaps, tired of being bossed around like a helpless civilian.

Barnes glances at him and his expression softens in a way that Tony wants to hate, but doesn’t, damn it.

“Please? I’ll be right back.”

They’re both soaked through and the rain is steadily turning the earth beneath their feet to mud. Tony can feel his teeth starting to chatter, shivers wracking through him, so he swallows his pride and nods. Barnes checks the gun and then darts down the road, moving faster than Tony would have believed possible if he hadn’t seen Rogers do the same thing dozens of times.

He paces a sluggish line back and forth at the tree line, mud pulling at his shoes. God, he misses his mansion. His lab. Heating. A warm bed and decent meals.

And yet, deep down, in a place he’s not quite ready to examine, that isn’t true. He’s got a broken wrist, he’s soaked down to his bones, he’s covered in mud, and he hasn’t slept properly in fucking days, but he’s not alone. For the first time in a year, he’s not alone and that, damn—that means much more than it probably should.

That’s close to _everything._

Lightning flashes, illuminating the woods for a brilliant instant, and the thunder cracks like an explosion. Tony shudders. Storms are fine from the safety of indoors, viewed through a protective window—he doesn’t like being in the middle of one.

Goddamnit, where the hell is Barnes?

He paces some more, mud all the way up to his ankles now, and has just about decided to go after Barnes when he hears the rumble of a car and headlights cut through the gloom. He ducks back into the trees, wary, and casts about for a weapon when the car stops right in front of him. All he can find is a large branch that’s going to be murder to swing one-handed, but it’s better than nothing.

The car door opens. Barnes steps out. Tony drops the branch with a shaky breath.

“Get in!” Barnes yells and Tony sprints for the passenger door.

Barnes has the heating cranked up all the way. Tony might love him, a little.

“What the hell?” He says as Barnes starts driving, peeling off his wet jacket and the pack. It’s awkward with only one hand, but Barnes is smart enough not to offer any assistance. “Where the fuck did you get this?”

“Stole it,” Barnes says.

The road is narrow, slick with mud, and bumpy. Tony hisses in pain when a pothole sends him smacking into the car door, jarring his wrist.

“Sorry,” Barnes says, shooting him a look that’s half worry, half guilt. “I’ll help with that soon.”

“Yeah, yeah, what do you mean you _stole_ it? I thought we _just said_ that was a bad idea. Who the hell did you steal it from?”

“Don’t worry,” Barnes says. “They won’t report it to the police.”

“Stop being cagey, Terminator.”

Barnes sighs, frustrated. “They were meth manufacturers. Had a lab set up in their garage.”

Tony blinks, tries to process this. “And how the _fuck_ did you know that? Wait—holy shit—did you _smell_ the drugs? Like some kind of sniffer dog? Is that seriously a thing you can do?”

Barnes actually looks sheepish. It’s freaking Tony out. “Sort of? I could smell the chemicals. It was a big lab.”

“Jesus, you’re terrifying,” Tony blurts, stunned.

Barnes flinches, expression shuttering closed. “I know.”

Oh God, not this again. Tony rolls his eyes and reaches over to punch Barnes in the arm. “Stop that. You’re terrifying in a good way. Like Banner.”

“Is that a compliment?” Barnes asks, wry and expressive again.

It _is,_ and Tony actually _means_ it and that’s, well, slightly alarming. “Shut up and drive.”

Barnes obeys. Though he doesn’t mean to fall asleep, Tony’s eyes quickly slide closed.

 

________________

 

When he wakes again, it’s daylight and Barnes is pulling over to the side of the road. Tony watches, still sluggish, as Barnes stumbles out of the car and throws up in the bushes. Tony makes a tired, sympathetic sound, because yeah, he gets it. He would be retching, too, if moving didn’t require so much effort.

Fuck, his wrist hurts.

He’s forcing himself into an upright position when Barnes slips back into the car.

“Sorry,” Barnes mumbles, wiping a shaking hand over his face. He looks absolutely wrecked, but Tony doubts he looks much better. They’re both mud-stained and covered in blood from the crash and the mad dash through the woods and Tony is fairly certain he’s never felt this disgusting in his life.

“I want a shower,” he announces. “And actual people food.”

Barnes nods, starting the car again. “Okay. And I need to take care of that wrist.”

They stop at another rundown, cheap motel. This time, Barnes charms the desk lady in fucking _Polish_ , because he’s terrifying. The room is just as revolting as the last one but the shower has hot water and that’s enough to make Tony practically cry with happiness. Oh, if the world could see him now.

Barnes showers with quick efficiency—in and out in ten minutes, Tony’s starting to think he really is a robot—and then he’s kneeling in front of Tony and taking his wrist with careful hands.

“I’m sorry about this,” he says again as he digs around in his pack for medical supplies. “I didn’t—”

“We went over this, Terminator. Not your fault. Enough with the wounded puppy look. You’re worse than Banner. _And_ Rogers.”

Barnes sighs, but doesn’t apologise again, thank God. He prods Tony’s wrist, ignoring Tony’s answering grunt of pain, and says, “It isn’t displaced, which is good. I won’t have to move the bones back into position.”

“Oh goody,” Tony mumbles.

Barnes fashions a splint with practiced ease and applies disinfect to the cuts on Tony’s face and arms.

“Do I look less like a walking crime scene now?” Tony asks, because he had avoided the mirror in the bathroom and he’d rather not go look now, either.

Barnes nods. He’s got cuts on his face, too, but they’re already starting to fade—the wonders of super healing. Tony’s definitely jealous.

“I’ll get us some food,” Barnes says, standing. He’s twitching slightly and his eyes are bloodshot. He looks like a drug addict badly in need of a fix and Tony doesn’t like the worry that curls sharp and hot in the pit of his stomach.

He lets Barnes go, because he’s starving and he needs a moment to collect himself. The attack hits as soon as the door clicks shut behind Barnes—panic clawing up his throat, wrapping around his lungs, sinking into his nerves. He hiccups out a terrified breath and puts his head between his knees, trying to shut down the hurricane that’s raging through his mind.

( _A car hits a tree on an empty road over and over and over bones crunch break Steve’s shield lifts above his head ready to crush his skull Barnes holds a gun to his face and screams at him in Russian rubble crushes his chest water flooding in Pepper slips from his fingers and falls falls falls consumed by fire the blackness of space surrounds him crushes him and he falls falls falls a gunshot echoes and Maya collapses and they shove him into the water and he can’t breathe can’t breathe…)_

Time flicks by in shudders and jumps. He’s slipped off the bed, kneeling on the floor, and God, _fuck_ this is a bad one, he doesn’t know how to pull himself out when it’s this bad—just has to wait for it to pass. _Please_ let it pass…

“Stark,” a voice is saying—tinny and far away, like a radio with bad reception—and then there’s hands pulling him up off the floor and an arm wrapping around his shoulders. “Tony,” the voice is louder now, familiar, but Tony can’t get his eyes open or draw enough air into his stuttering lungs to respond.

“Tony, we’re going to count breaths, okay?” the voice continues, calm and soothing. “Focus on my voice and breathe when I say. In.”

Tony manages to suck in a shaky breath and holds it. A hand is rubbing circles on his back and he leans back into it, lets it anchor him. “Out,” the voice instructs.

Tony exhales. Inhales. Exhales—following the voice. The panic finally starts to recede, draining out of him in starts and stops until he’s breathing on his own and no longer feeling like he’s about to fly apart. The hand hasn’t moved from his back and when he opens his eyes, it’s Barnes sitting next to him, expression open and worried and understanding.

Tony doesn’t have any strength left for rebuilding his walls at the moment and lets his forehead thunk down on Barnes’ shoulder without giving himself too much time to think about it. Barnes starts, but doesn’t pull away—moves _closer_ instead, shifting so he can wrap his arm around Tony again.

It’s … fuck, it’s nice. It’s the closest he’s let someone be to him in _years._ The fact that it’s _Barnes,_ ex HYDRA assassin, doesn’t even register.

He hasn’t thought of Barnes like that in days now, anyway.

“How did … how did you know how to do that?” he croaks eventually.

“Steve used to get asthma attacks,” Barnes murmurs. “And I’ve had plenty of panic attacks since … since escaping HYDRA. ‘S common, with PTSD.”

“I don’t have PTSD,” Tony mutters, defensive. PTSD is for soldiers or trauma victims and he is neither.

“I do,” Barnes says easily. “And I can recognise the symptoms.”

That confession somehow cuts Tony off at the pass and he doesn’t bother mounting further protests. God, he’s so tired. With a quiet groan, he decides to salvage what’s left of his dignity and moves away from Barnes, pushing himself to his feet.

“Did you get food?”

Barnes stands, wobbles a little, but gestures to a brown bag on the bed. “Yeah, burgers.”

“Fuck, I love you,” Tony says with total sincerity and scoops up the bag.

It’s a cheeseburger. The first bite is absolute _heaven._ Literally the best damn thing he’s ever tasted in his _life_. He might moan a bit pornographically by bite two, but Barnes just shoots him an amused look and eats his own burger in stoic silence, like he’s not having his own food orgasm over there—Tony can see right through him, thank you.

The fries are just as good as the burger. Tony is _definitely_ in love.

Once they’ve finished two burgers each and a large serving of fries, Tony collapses back on the bed with a contented sigh. He’s so happy right now he doesn’t even care about the springs digging into his back or the fact that this mattress is so full of germs it’s probably carrying infectious diseases or how badly he embarrassed himself by having a total meltdown in front of Barnes. 

Barnes throws the wrappers in the trash and sighs. “We should get moving,” he mumbles.

He still looks seconds from collapsing and Tony decides to put his foot down. “No. We need a minute, okay? Or have you forgotten the past ten hours? We need a minute and you need to sleep.”

Barnes frowns at him. “Have _you_ forgotten? It’s _dangerous,_ I could—”

“It’s dangerous if you _don’t,”_ Tony cuts in, sitting up. “Look, I hate to be the reasonable adult in any situation, _ever,_ but you’re an idiot who doesn’t know his own limitations so I can step up to the plate. You need to sleep, Barnes. Now. Or you’re gonna start hallucinating for real and collapse on me and I am _not_ hauling your unconscious body around—you weigh a ton. So get on the damn bed and tell me how to help you.”

Barnes blinks at him for a long moment, looking almost comically stunned. Tony’s offended—seriously, he _is_ capable of being an adult sometimes, why is that so hard to believe? Before he can press the issue further, though, Barnes gives a quiet huff of frustrated surrender and crawls onto the bed next to Tony.

“I can’t hurt you again,” he mumbles into the pillow, folding up to make himself smaller. It’s disconcerting, how he can do that. He’s almost as tall as Steve, but Rogers has never managed to turn himself invisible the way Barnes seems capable of doing. “Don’t let me.”

“I won’t,” Tony promises around the sudden lump in his throat. “That’s not fun for me, either. If you wake up in kill mode I’ll get the hell out, okay? Just … is there anything I can do? To help?”

Because he can see reflections of his own insomnia, his own fucking _terror,_ in Barnes and, God, no one should have to go through that. He’s shit at this, but at least he’s trying, right? That should definitely count for something.

Barnes thinks for a moment and shakes his head. “No.” He’s already starting to slip, voice slurring—so exhausted his body is literally shutting down. Tony hopes that means he won’t dream. “Just … just stay? Don’t like…” he swallows and Tony can see him struggling to focus. “Sleeping alone. Vulnerable.”

Fuck. Tony’s chest aches.

“Sure,” he says, reaching out on instinct to squeeze Barnes’ shoulder. “Sure, buddy. I’ll keep watch.”

Barnes makes a grateful noise in the back of his throat and then he’s gone, sagging into the lumpy mattress—dead to the world. Feeling foolishly protective, Tony shifts a little closer—back to headboard and legs sprawled out in front of him—and closes his eyes.

 

________________

 

**BUCKY**

He wakes up with a jolt and gasp—the bed groaning loudly in protest to the shift in weight. Stark is asleep next to him, curled up on his side with his damaged wrist hanging off the mattress. It’s dark outside and Bucky guesses, surprised, that he’s slept for a few hours.

He still feels sluggish, shaky, but less like he’s going to break at any moment. The past day weighs heavy in his chest—the wreck of the car, Stark’s eyes wide with terror, the faint crunch of breaking bone as he took down the police officers—

He makes it to the toilet before he throws up again. When he’s done emptying the contents of his stomach, he curls up on the floor in abject misery. Fuck, he misses Steve—aches for his calming presence, his warmth. He touches the ring resting against his chest and closes his eyes, trying to get himself under control. It takes awhile, but eventually the urge to curl up on the floor and weep passes. A few minutes more and he feels strong enough to get up.  

Stark is still passed out and Bucky crosses the room silently to fish the burner phone out of his pack. He debates sitting back on the bathroom floor, but climbs into the tub instead. It’s a little cleaner and he can pull the curtain around for an illusion of privacy.

He calls Steve and huddles down, pressing his hot forehead to the cool porcelain.

Steve picks up immediately, “ _Buck, are you okay?”_

“Relatively,” Bucky mumbles, knowing better than to lie to him. “Safe for now, at least.”

“ _Thank God. We were worried.”_

“I feel like a livewire,” Bucky admits softly. “An exposed nerve. Fuck … Steve I wrecked the car. Broke his wrist. Just because I tried to _sleep.”_

“ _Not your fault,”_ Steve fires back immediately, predictably. “ _You know that, Buck. None of that is your fault.”_

“Knowing and believing are two different things, sweetheart.”

“ _I know,”_ Steve replies, gentle. “ _I know, love.”_

“I’m better now,” Bucky continues, wanting to assure him. “’M not gonna … ‘m not as close to shattering. I’ll make it.”

_“You’re the strongest person I know, Bucky Barnes. Of course you’ll make it.”_

Bucky laughs, faint and wet. “Flattery isn’t gonna get you anywhere, punk.”

_“Fact not flattery, jerk.”_

Bucky sighs, shifting so his cheek is resting against the edge of the tub instead. “Any news on Lang?”

“ _Yes, actually. I was going to call, but still wasn’t sure if you were safe and I didn’t want to make things worse. We’ve got in touch and he’s happy to help. I have coordinates for a meeting place. I could find a way to send them…?”_

“Just tell me,” Bucky says. “You know I’ll remember.” Even as fucked up as his head currently is, tactical information always holds above everything else. Another thing he has HYDRA to thank for.

Steve rattles them off and Bucky files them away. It’s somewhere in Texas, near the border. Should take them under two days to make it if they don’t stop again. It’s a goal and Bucky’s grateful for it: something to focus on besides his ghosts and Ross and the hum of that _fucking chair._

“How are you holding up?”

Steve makes a frustrated noise. _“Don’t worry about me. I’m just sitting here on my ass like a useless lump while you—”_ He chokes, gasps. “ _Fuck, I’m so sorry I left you. I never should have left you.”_

“I told you to,” Bucky says, sharp. “It’s not your fault.”

Steve laughs, wet and a little broken. Bucky wishes he could somehow reach through the phone and hold him. “ _God, we’re a real pair, aren’t we?”_

“Damn straight.”

Steve’s laugh lightens slightly, enough.

“I should go,” Bucky says reluctantly, wary about using the phone for too long. It’s an old model, almost impossible to track like a smartphone but he’s paranoid.

 _“Wait,”_ Steve says. _“Look … just a few more minutes, okay?”_

Bucky caves easily. “Okay. Talk to me? Don’t care what about.”

Steve does, launching into anecdotes about what he and the others have been doing in Europe for the past few weeks. Bucky lets Steve’s voice wash over him and starts to sew up his wounds again, stitch by painful stitch.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah, I'm nervous about this chapter. Big emotional steps forward and new characters. Gah. Hopefully we're still on track. 
> 
> Enjoy and as always, comments are deeply appreciated. You all are wonderful. :) 
> 
> \- C x

"Friendship ... is born at the moment when one man says to another "What! You too? I thought that no one but myself . . ."

— **C.S. Lewis**

 

________________

 

**_From the journals of James Barnes, 2017:_ **

_I hate my goddamn memory._

_I hate that it remembers the blood, the faces, but not the names. I didn’t remember Howard Stark’s name until his son watched him die on a screen, but I remember the feel of his bones breaking beneath my fist—how loud his wife cried, the way he begged for her life._

_I remember slitting someone’s throat in Paris, watching the life choke out of them on an expensive rug, but not what the city looked like until I visited it with you. I remembered blades slicing into my skin deep enough to touch bone before the shape of my mother’s smile._

_Do you know why Zola picked me? I do and it has nothing to do with how strong I was. I was dying of pneumonia when they threw me on that table, beaten half to death by a guard with a grudge. He just wanted an excuse to tear me apart because he knew what I was and he hated it. I was never supposed to be a success. Lucky me, right?_

_Yiddish was the only language they took from me._

_There are things I wish I could erase. So much of it I don’t want to remember. At least those first few years, before they broke me, are a blur. I don’t want to know the extent of the things they did to me, then, in the name of making a weapon out of me._

_I think about the things I’ve done, all that’s been done to me, and I marvel at the fact that you still want me._

 

________________

**BUCKY**

He wakes Stark by kicking the end of the bed and backs up when Stark predictably jerks upright, gauntleted hand raised. Stark blinks several times and then slowly lowers his hand, gauntlet folding back into his watch, and slumps forward with a faint groan.

“How are you feeling?” Bucky asks, biting back the urge to apologize again.

“Like I got hit by a small car instead of a bus,” Stark says, voice dry. “So I’m going to count that as better.”

Bucky nods, relieved, and moves to collect his pack. They’re both exhausted, wrung out, but something between them has eased, he can feel it, even if he doesn’t have the right words to acknowledge it.

Maybe it doesn’t need to be.

“We should get moving,” he says, shrugging the pack onto his shoulders.

Stark sighs. “Right, of course we should. Any developments on the grand escape plan?”

“We’re meeting Lang in Texas. He’s going to help us across the border.”

“Yippy,” Stark says with absolutely no enthusiasm.

The cuts on his face have faded slightly from the angry, bloody red they were this morning, but he still looks too pale, washed out, and Bucky wishes he had more to offer—a clear way of fixing this whole fucking mess.

But he doesn’t and he’s long ago learned to accept all the things he cannot change.

They leave the drug manufacturers’ car with its mud-covered seats in the parking lot of the motel and steal a different one three rows over. Mercifully, it doesn’t smell overwhelmingly of chemicals, sweat, and weed.

Stark is uncharacteristically quiet in the passenger seat as they trade Illinois for Missouri so Bucky turns the radio to a classical station and focuses on the highway winding out before them.

If Stark has something to say, he’ll say it.

Sure enough, thirty-six minutes later, Stark blurts, “What happens after we get to Rogers?”

Bucky frowns. “I’m not sure. We’ll need to go to ground for a while—find somewhere to lie low. Probably somewhere further east. There are several African and Asian countries that didn’t sign the Accords so we should be able to—”

“So you expect that Rogers and I will just hug and make up?” Stark interrupts. “Hold hands and sing Kumbaya? We didn’t exactly part on great terms, Terminator.”

“I remember,” Bucky fires back, fingers tightening briefly on the steering wheel. “I was there.”

He’d been afraid, _terrified,_ for Steve, for himself—even as he understood what Stark wanted, what was _owed,_ and he thinks, now, that if Steve hadn’t been there, he wouldn’t have fought. Once running was no longer an option, he would have laid down and died for his sins because, really, it was only a matter of time before someone came seeking retribution.

He carries the knowledge with him: that every single person he killed left a hole in someone else’s world and if he needs to pay for anything, it’s for _that._

He doesn’t think Stark wants that anymore—not after everything they’ve been through in the past few weeks. Stark has had plenty of chances and he’s always helped instead of hurt, but Bucky can’t stop the pathetic, defensive hunch of his shoulders. He blames it on nerves still rubbed raw from the flashback and the crash and everything that came after.

Stark makes a frustrated, acquiescing sound, and rubs a hand over his face.

“Right. We should probably talk about that. But Rogers first. If he doesn’t want me there, I’m fucked, Barnes. I can’t go back. They’re probably investigating Rhodey and Pepper right now. I’ll be lucky if they don’t liquidate the company. I mean, I made sure that I was involved in name only so hopefully they won’t be assholes about it and if anyone can give them a run for their money it’s Pepper plus Rhodes is a fucking decorated war hero who was just …" A choked breath. "Just wounded in service to his country so they’d be _idiots_ to try anything, but still, I’ve got nothing. I’m not some super spy or soldier. I just want ….”

Another frustrated sound. “Just some assurance, okay? That you aren’t bringing me back to Rogers only to hang me out to dry. Or worse.”

Bucky forces himself to relax, surprise making it easier. “Is that … is that really what you think of us?”

Stark sighs, grimacing, and shrugs. “I don’t know. We weren’t … we haven’t exactly been kind to each other.”

“Maybe if you sat down and _talked_ to each other about it instead of being stubborn assholes,” Bucky says, because he knows how Steve can be and he knows Stark now, too, and it’s easy to see how this went, even if he wasn’t present for most of it.

“You don’t think we tried that?” Stark snaps. “We fucking _talked,_ Barnes. I can’t help it if your boyfriend is an unmovable _asshole_ who doesn’t fucking understand that I was just trying to—”

He cuts himself off abruptly and inhales, ragged. Bucky forces himself to stay calm. One of them has to—that’s the rule. Or at least, he's made that the rule after the giant shitstorm yesterday. 

“I know,” he says, quiet. “I know what I am to Steve and I know that makes him selfish and reckless sometimes. Why do you think I kept my fucking distance? And I … I know … he’s always known what he believes in, right from the very beginning, and he’s never allowed anyone to change that. Even me. So maybe talking wouldn’t have worked, but…”

This isn’t helping, he can tell—Steve is still an open wound for Stark, raw and bloody at the edges—so he switches tactics. “Why did you sign?”

Stark glances at him, surprised. “Didn’t you get the rundown from Rogers?”

Bucky shrugs. “I want to hear it from you.”

Stark blows out a long breath. “Okay. Shit, okay.” He runs a hand through his hair before squaring his shoulders, expression hardening into something serious and determined and jagged all at once. “We’re dangerous. We’re seriously fucking dangerous. People have _died_ because of us. Innocent people. Lots of them. We’ve got a girl who can control things with her mind, a superhuman alien robot whose powers we don’t even know _the extent_ of, two highly trained spies with a kill record longer than I care to think about, a man who turns into an enormous green rage monster capable of levelling a small city if he loses control, a superhuman soldier, and … and a mad scientist who invents killer robots in his spare time. Don’t you think we need someone to keep us in check? Last time … a whole _city_ fell from the fucking sky and that’s on us. On _me.”_

Sensing that Stark isn’t done yet, Bucky holds his tongue. Stark sucks in a deep breath, lets it out slow. His voice is quieter when he continues. “I … I’m capable of terrible things. Rogers can believe the safest hands are our own, but he’s a fucking icon and a goddamn _hero_ who …”

Stark pauses again, rubs a hand across his mouth. A glance shows Bucky all of his fracture lines - the cracks in his head and heart. “Look, they used to call me the Merchant of Death and I thought I left that goddamn title behind when I became Iron Man but I don’t think I did. I keep fucking up, over and over and over, and if it takes a fucking _committee_ to stop me doing it again, then fine. Good. My hands are covered in blood, Barnes. They’re not _safe._ ”

Silence settles in. Stark is staring at his lap, good hand clenched into a fist, and Bucky tries to gather himself. He knows what he’s been given—can practically see the blood over the seats from where Stark just cut himself open—and he has to be careful with it. It’s easier than expected, because he _understands._

“So are mine,” He says softly. “So are Steve’s. None of us are clean, Stark. We’ve all … you may not call yourself a soldier but we’ve all been in the fucking wars. And people die. It’s shit and it … it fucking _hurts,_ but it happens. And I don’t think it’s exclusive to having some kind of superpower. Seventy years ago, the Nazis killed _six million_ of my people and they did that all on their own. No special fucking powers involved. _Everyone_ is capable of monstrous things, if pushed far enough.”

He swallows, mustering up his courage. Stark bled for him, he can do the fucking same. “I know what it’s like to be terrified of yourself.  But I’m learning—or I’m trying to—that being scared of what you are, what you’re capable of, doesn’t solve a fucking thing. I _know_ what I’m capable of. And because of that I know where the fucking lines are. I know I won’t cross them ever again because I know what happens when I fucking _do_. You can’t expect … a bunch of people locked up in a cushy fucking room will never see that. It only took them _two_ _fucking weeks_ to decide to torture me like HYDRA did and they moved that fast because it was fucking _easy_ for them. They didn’t have to stand in that room and watch me scream. That makes _them_ dangerous. More dangerous than us. So maybe our hands are bloodstained and filthy and we’ve got monsters inside of us, but we _know._ We’re there in the goddamn trenches. We remember the blood and the death—hold it inside ourselves—and that’s how we fucking stop. At least … that’s what I believe. What … what I’m _trying_ to believe.”

And he  _is._ God, is he trying. It's never easy - the line between himself and the Winter Soldier blurring and shifting constantly until he isn't sure where the differences are, or if there were ever any differences at all - but he _has_ to. For Steve. For  _himself_ \- the man he was and the man HYDRA destroyed and the man he wants to be. 

His throat aches. Next to him, Stark is quiet for a few long moments. Then he laughs—jagged, halfway to hysterical.

“Fuck, Barnes. _Shit.”_ His voice cracks and he scrapes a hand over his face again before fixing Bucky with a sharp, contemplative look that digs beneath his skin. “You actually get it, don’t you?”

What it means to have blood on your hands, a past full of mistakes, to be afraid of your own mind and the depths of your own darkness—he does, god, he _does_. He can still feel the dirt choking him some nights, the blood dripping onto the floor from where it runs just beneath his skin—and he’s getting better, he _is,_ but the war made him dark and monstrous long before HYDRA and there are pieces of himself he’ll never get back because he gave them away; they weren’t ripped from him.

So even though he doesn’t believe in governments or committees, is fucking _terrified_ of what they’re capable of, he can see why Stark signed on that dotted line—the desperation and fear that drove him—and it’s easy to say, heartfelt, _sincere:_ “I do, Tony. I promise.”

Stark laughs again, nods, and they breathe, letting the quiet settle.

Then, suddenly: “I was tortured in Afghanistan.”

Bucky glances at him, surprised. Stark smiles, bitter. “Yeah, it’s not something I really advertise. I didn’t want my sob story plastered all over the tabloids, you know? They held my head under water. Wouldn’t let me up. They did it a lot, in the beginning. Cut open my chest, too, and stuck a fucking _car battery_ in. I used to have a reactor here.” He taps his chest. “To stop shrapnel from wrecking my heart. But the water—that really sucked. I don’t think I lasted more than ten minutes before I was ready to build whatever they fucking wanted.”

Bucky wishes he knew what to say. “Stark…”

“Pull over.” It's not a request. 

The two-lane highway is empty. On the horizon, beyond the trees and rolling hills, the sun is starting to lighten the sky and clouds are rolling in—another autumn storm gathering. Bucky finds a turnoff road, bracketed by towering trees, and stops the car, turning off the engine. Stark shifts to face him, leaning back against the door. Bucky mirrors him, even though he ends up wedged against the steering wheel. He doesn’t know what to expect, but the tension thick in the air stops this from feeling ridiculous.

“I lasted ten minutes,” Stark says. “You … you had seventy fucking years, didn’t you? And you’re sitting there. Don’t think I would’ve had a brain left to function. So I get it, too, and I … I need to say this now because it’s important and you probably need to hear it.” He bites his lips and then says, shaky and firm all at once, “It wasn’t your fault.”

Bucky flinches—Stark’s words hitting like a blow to the gut. Stark smiles at him again, tinged with tired understanding. “It wasn’t, okay? They made you a weapon, right? Controlled your mind. And look, when someone goes and shoots someone else in the head, you don’t blame the _gun_. You blame the person who fired the gun. Or the person who _made_ the gun in the first place.” He waves a hand at himself, self-deprecating. “But you were there and convenient and I’d already blown up the guys responsible without even _knowing._ So … I was wrong. And if you need forgiveness, I’ll give it to you. You’re forgiven. Absolved.”

He waves his hand again—this time in benediction, a wry smile twisting the corner of his mouth. "I absolve you." Bucky thinks he might have forgotten how to breathe. Starks's eyes are wet and it takes Bucky a moment to realise his own are, too. “You’re … you’re a _good person,_ Barnes. Probably better than me. What happened … it was horrible and it’s always going to fucking hurt, but _it wasn’t your fault._ And if I have to engrave that on your arm or something so you don’t forget, I will.”

Bucky lets out a gasping breath. Steve has told him this a thousand times, but it’s different coming from Tony Stark—whose world he carved a gaping, terrible hole in. Somewhere under his skin, he can feel part of the dirt shift, crumble—a little bit of all that blood washing away. God, fuck, he might start bawling if he isn’t careful, because even after everything, he never expected Stark to give him  _this._  
  
“Thank you,” he mumbles, wiping a hand over his eyes before he can embarrass himself. “ _Thank you_. That means … that means more than you know.” More than Bucky has words for.

Stark shakes his head and swipes at his own eyes. “Yeah, well.  I’m tired of all this shit and being angry and drinking all the time, and we’re going to be stuck together for the foreseeable future, which I don’t think I even _mind_ anymore—even though you’re grumpy and you have absolutely no appreciation for modern music and you keep pulling creepy assassin skills out of nowhere and you’re dating _Rogers_ of all people—so how about it, Barnes. Friends?” Stark sticks out his hand.

Bucky doesn’t think he’s been this floored since he got pulled off an examination table in Austria and realised he was looking _up_ at Steve.

He reaches out and takes Stark’s—though maybe it should be Tony now, shouldn’t it?—hand, noticing with a mixture of surprise and relief that he doesn’t flinch away from the metal. “Deal. Friends.”

They shake like a pair of idiots and it’s the lightest Bucky’s felt in _weeks._ Judging from the look on Tony’s face, that’s a mutual thing.

“Right,” Tony says, buckling up his seatbelt again. “That’s enough emotional talk for now, don’t you think? Let’s go find Honey I Shrunk the Kids and get the hell out of this country. And I’m turning off this shit. What even is this?” He leans forward to change the radio station to something with a lot of loud guitar and drums. “Now _this_ is music, Barnes.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, pulling back out on the highway. “Whatever you say, Stark.”

Giddiness blooms in his chest that he doesn’t bother trying to suppress. They’re going to be okay, he thinks. _Hopes._ Even after everything.

They’re going to be okay.

 

________________

 

**TONY**

They stop for way too much fast food somewhere near the state line and Tony shoves Barnes- _Bucky,_ as he's trying very hard to think of him as after they've made this whole friendship thing handshake official - into the passenger seat. Thankfully, Bucky goes without complaint—though he does insist that Tony tell him if driving gets to be too much with his wrist. Tony is rapidly starting to realise Bucky is a total sap _and_ a huge worrywart and that neither of those things are bad, even if it’s a little more than Tony is currently used to.

Still, he’s knocked holes in _way_ too many of his walls to retreat now.

Bucky curls up in a ridiculous ball, somehow managing to fit his feet up under him, the freak, and sinks into his meditation thing.

Tony drives and hums along to the radio for several hours—determined to give Bucky his semblance of rest. It’s a comfortable kind of quiet, almost pleasant. He’s knocked holes in _way_ too many of his walls and he can’t bring himself to regret it. Not when he’s found someone who knows guilt as black and deep as his own—who still looks in a mirror and occasionally sees a monster looking back.

He didn’t expect Bucky's understanding, but he’s discovering, too, that Bucky is damaged in ways Steve will never be and therefore sees a world that’s darker—that sometimes requires you to make sacrifices to survive, to stop the worse thing that’s always on the fucking horizon, even if those sacrifices are pieces of your hopes and dreams and heart.

Tony doesn’t necessarily regret signing, still doesn’t believe in playing God even if it’s all gone to hell, but. Bucky has given him more to think about and he’ll have time. Hopefully. Without Ross hovering over their shoulders, the whole world baying for Bucky's blood, and Zemo pulling strings in the shadows, maybe he and Steve can learn how to bend. Just enough to keep from shattering—each other and the people that they love.

Maybe. Maybe.

Somewhere in the middle of Oklahoma, Bucky unfolds himself, wiping his flesh hand over his face. Tony’s wrist is starting to ache and he debates briefly about being stoic, but then decides fuck it. “Switch?”

Bucky nods, blinking himself back to alertness, and Tony pulls into a rest stop. They spend a few minutes pacing circles around the car, stretching their legs. Tony rotates the tension out of his shoulders with a low groan. Once this is over, he plans to avoid cars for the foreseeable future—they’re so goddamn _uncomfortable._

“I hate cars,” he says to Bucky on his second circle. Bucky's metal arm is whirring as he swings it, as if in sad agreement. “Cars suck. I mean limos are okay, because they have _space_ but normal cars suck. This car definitely sucks. I’m so stiff I might actually snap in half if I try to bend anything.”

Bucky makes a sympathetic sound in reply and they shuffle through another two circles before forcing themselves back in the car.

“We should be there in a little over ten hours,” Bucky says as they merge back onto the highway.

“Thank God,” Tony mutters. He’s definitely ready for Phase II of this escape plan. Almost a week in a car is literally no one’s idea of fun.

“So,” he continues because he’s tired of quiet, and it’s probably about time they talked about something not explosive and-or soul crushingly sad, “what’s your favourite thing about the future? And the answer cannot be Rogers-related.”

“Spoilsport,” Barnes says, but there’s a smile in the corner of his mouth. He mulls it over. “The technology is nice. I used to love going to the expos in New York—seeing all of the inventions. It’s amazing, being able to type something into a fucking search bar on a screen and have all the information in the world at your fingertips. Kinda fucking blew my mind at first. _Way_ too much to handle.”

“I bet,” Tony agrees. “Let me guess, you got lost somewhere in the terrifying depths of Wikipedia?”

“That place is a trap,” Bucky says darkly.

Tony laughs. Something lodged deep in his chest has shifted after their little heart-to-heart earlier. It’s a step, a start; it’s the edges of his exploded heart starting to cauterize—air cycling through frozen, steeled-over lungs again.

It’s, Tony realises with no small amount of surprise, _hope._

Huh. He’d almost forgotten what that feels like.

He’ll need time to take it out and properly examine it, but for now he kicks his feet up on the dash and says, “So what was Rogers like before becoming Captain America shoved a stick up his ass?”

Bucky snorts at that. “A human disaster.”

“Seriously?” Tony has been kind of getting that picture from the small titbits Bucky dropped earlier, but well. Still hard to believe.

“ _Yes,”_ Bucky replies with all the emphasis of an exasperated parent. “His fucking heart or lungs could have given out on him at any _fucking time_ but he was still _always_ getting into fights. Had no idea when to keep his stupid trap shut or just _walk away_ like a sensible person. He made me give him boxing lessons and kept lying on his enlistment form because he couldn’t fucking take no for an answer, even though _basic_ would’ve fucking killed him dead in less than a week. He was a goddamn idiot. I have no idea how he survived to his _teens_ let alone his twenties.”

Tony can’t stop grinning at how genuinely put out Bucky sounds about all of this. Their relationship isn’t exactly what he expected, going from the history books and Bucky's bad boy, womanizing reputation occasionally painted in them, but God is it great. “Jesus, you were totally the responsible one, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” Bucky huffs. “Every time I turned my back he was off doing something stupid. And then I got drafted and he went and got himself turned into _Captain America.”_  He scowls, but there’s a staggering amount of affection in his eyes.

“And yet you loved him,” Tony points out, amused.

“With every beat of my fucking heart,” Bucky fires back without a moment of hesitation. “Even if I was sure he was gonna kill me from all the stress before we were thirty.”

Tony makes a contemplative sound and ventures, hesitant, “Sounds like I didn’t know him at all.”

Bucky glances at him and says with conviction, “You will.”

“Yeah,” Tony agrees, leaning back in his seat. “Maybe.”

Maybe—for the first time in a long time that word is full of possibility.

Hope, indeed.

 

________________

 

The coordinates are literally in the middle of the fucking desert, five miles outside of Laredo. Lang is already there, idling in a beat up car that has seen better _decades_ let alone better _days._

He gets out when they pull to a stop and Tony can feel the energy radiating off him all the way from over here.

Great.

There’s two men with him—a Latino with a puppy dog face and a vampire. Or at least pale enough to be a vampire.

Bucky gets out first, a smile on his face as he extends his hand to Lang.

“Hey, man!” Lang says, bright. “Good to see you.”

“You too, Scott.”

Tony climbs out of the car and Lang’s eyes instantly narrow—shoulders tensing. “Stark.”

“Thumbelina.”

“Whoa, dude,” the Latino says. “That’s Tony Stark.”

“I told you we were picking him up,” Lang says.

“Nah, man, you just said one dude with some crazy baggage.”

“Well that's also accurate.”

The vampire is staring intently at Barnes. “You are Winter Soldier,” he announces in a thick Russian accent. Fantastic, more Russians. “I heard many stories about you. You were great legend in intelligence community. And then I learn you are not Russian. Very disappointing.”

Bucky shrugs with a surprising amount of nonchalance. “I was Russian longer than I was American.”

Vampire shakes his head. “No. That does not count.”

Well, this is sufficiently the weirdest meeting Tony’s ever had in his life. “Can we get this freak show on the road, please?”

“ _Tony Stark,_ bro,” the Latino says. Lang rolls his eyes.

“Right,” he says, stepping forward and holding up a small red disk. “Look, we’ve tested this in the lab a few times and it _should_ be fine, but it’s still kind of in the experimental phase so I’m sorry in advance if you end up dying or shrinking forever.”

Bucky arches an eyebrow. “Shrinking _forever?”_

“It’s horrifying. You don’t want to know.” Lang smiles. “Ready?”

Tony opens his mouth, ready to spew empathetic denial, but Bucky steps forward, holding out his arm. “Me first, then Stark.”

He looks like a man going to war. Tony does _not_ approve of this sacrifice. “Barnes…”

“It’s fine,” Bucky says, smiling grimly at him. “I figure I have less of a chance of dying than you.”

“Have you forgotten the _shrinking forever_ part?” Tony snaps.

“You probably will die before that happens,” Lang chimes in helpfully.

Bucky makes a gesture at Lang like, _see?_  

Tony wants to argue further, but they don’t have any other options. He sighs and waves a hand in surrender. Bucky holds out his arm to Lang again.

“Brace yourself,” Lang says and slaps the disk against his flesh arm.

Bucky disappears. There’s a moment of tense silence. Then: “Shit, man, did he make it?”

Tony does _not_ like the sudden panic flooding his blood. “Lang, if you killed him…”

Lang waves at him, distracted, and crouches, holding out his hand to something on the ground. “Relax, Stark. He’s fine. Right, Barnes?”

Lang lifts his palm and then Tony sees it: Bucky standing in the centre, tiny as, well, an ant. He’s spinning in rapid circles and even though he’s too small to make out facial features from where Tony’s standing, he can guess that what Bucky is currently feeling is a mixture of awe and pants-shitting terror.

“Just hang on, okay, Barnes?” Lang says, tone almost soothing. “You’re fine. Here, Luis, take him for me?”

The Latino—Luis—steps forward and carefully lifts Bucky into his own hand.

“Hey, bro. Just relax, yeah? I got you.”

Lang turns him to with a sharp grin, holding up another red disk. “Your turn, Stark.”

Tony takes a deep breath, unwilling to show any fear in front of Lang and his idiot sidekicks, and rolls up his sleeve. Lang attaches the disk to his skin. He feels a jerk, a weird pull, and then the world rapidly enlarges as he shrinks, shrinks, _shrinks_ until Lang is approximately the size of a skyscraper.

Yep. Awe and pants-shitting terror is about right.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost there, guys.

And under my skin: alphabets, alphabets

In black ink, a legacy of histories tiny and alive

As an ant army marching toward forever.

―  **Monica Ferrell**

 

________________

 

**TONY**

Tony is perched on top of Lang’s terrible car, Bucky on one side and Lang on the other. He thinks, staring up at Puppy and Vampire, that maybe they should have discussed this plan _before_ shrinking. Every time these two idiots talk it sounds like thunder and Bucky’s eyes keep getting wider.

Tony shifts closer to him, pressing up against his side in an effort to keep him grounded. Being tiny is enough to deal with, thank you very much. He doesn’t want to weather Bucky freaking out on top of that.

“Now normally,” Lang is saying. He’s dressed in that ridiculous suit and he’s waving his arms as he talks—energy still radiating off him like he’s had five too many cups of coffee. The urge to punch him is growing stronger with each passing second. “I would just stick you on an ant and fly us across the border, no problem, but like I said this is experimental so we don’t want to subject you to too much, um, _adventure_ right off the bat. So for now, we’re getting in that briefcase,” he points to the open briefcase looming next to them, “and Luis is going to take us through.”

“I’m visiting my grandmother,” Luis says. “It’s her birthday this week and she’s like crazy super old so I figure I can’t miss it, y’know what ’m sayin’? She could kick it at any time and I haven’t introduced her to my boyfriend yet.”

“I’m boyfriend,” Vampire deadpans. Luis grins and wraps an arm around his waist.

“I don’t want her to die before I tell her about our love,” he gushes, actually close to convincing. “Or that I’m you know, like, _gay._ Which might actually kill her, but hey nothing ventured nothing gained, right, officer? Though I don’t know if it’ll be the fact that I’m gay or that I’m dating a white boy that’ll do her in, know what ‘m sayin’? I think there’s a betting pool going with my cousins. And, hey, if she kicks it then at least the whole family’s already together the funeral!”

“Going to be big weekend,” Vampire says, still mostly expressionless, though he does shift to lean into Luis’ side.

“Definitely, bro,” Luis agrees, squeezing him. “Gonna be _crazy.”_

“We’re dead,” Bucky announces, scrubbing a hand across his face.

“Nah, bro,” Luis says. “We totally got this.”

“Do not worry. Have fooled police many times.”

Tony is highly, _highly_ doubtful of that fact, but they don’t have a plan B so whatever. He’ll roll with it. Crazier shit has happened than these two clowns being successful at anything. Once you've set the bar at  _fucking aliens_ it's amazing what you can put with. 

“Everything'll be fine,” Lang tells them with greatly misplaced confidence. “Now get in the briefcase.”

Climbing up into the briefcase is utterly embarrassing, but at least Bucky doesn’t seem to be faring much better. Tony _so_ wants to get a picture of his tiny legs flailing around as he struggles to get enough purchase to haul himself up. Lang, the dick, has the advantage of a suit and just propels himself over the edge like he’s freaking Bugs Bunny or something.

Tony ends up falling and landing on top Bucky in a horribly undignified heap. He has a deep suspicion that Lang is laughing at them.

“I hate this,” Bucky mutters. “Why would anyone want to do this? This is horrible.”

“Hey, don’t diss the ant powers,” Lang retorts, reaching out to help Bucky to his feet.

He completely ignores Tony. Dick.

Bucky, at least, is a decent enough human being to reach down and haul Tony up, even if he’s not exactly gentle about it. Tony forgives him when he sees the panic creeping into the corners of Bucky's expression. The top of the briefcase closes with a deafening _thud_ and Bucky sucks in a tiny, hitching breath.

Shit.

“How long are we trapped in here?” He asks Lang, because, hey, he can be a decent human being, too.

Lang shrugs. “Two hours, maybe? Three, tops.”

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut. It’s almost pitch black inside the briefcase and the whole mess just gets worse when Vampire or Puppy picks the thing up. They don’t tilt it, thankfully, but the ground is still freakishly unsteady beneath Tony’s feet. It’s like being subjected to a low key earthquake, or suddenly finding himself in the middle of a stormy sea.

He does not approve.

Bucky, it seems, approves even less. He’s gone down on one knee to keep his balance, but the metal arm is whirring in a way that Tony is starting to realise means it's reacting to the high levels of stress and-or emotions running through Bucky’s head.

Shit shit shit.

The briefcase is set down with a jolt and Tony can hear faint car doors slamming, the muffled roar of an engine. Bucky is still crouched a foot away and Tony can only see the outline of his hunched shoulders in the dark. Lang doesn’t seem to have a vision problem (stupid suit advantage) and is more observant than Tony’s been giving him credit for because he’s kneeling next to Bucky and saying, cheerful and calm at the same time: “Hey, what’s up? I know the tiny thing does take some getting used to. I passed out the first time I put on the suit. Is it that? Or the dark?”

“Dark,” Bucky forces out through gritted teeth.

Ah, claustrophobia. That makes a lot of sense. He doesn’t know the details of Bucky’s imprisonment and torture but small, black spaces usually fit into that kind of awfulness somewhere.

Lang makes a contemplative sound and stands up. “Right.”

He vanishes into the darkness for a moment and then there’s a familiar sounding beep and the briefcase floods with light from a cell phone screen. Bucky is sitting now, Tony sees, curled in on himself like after that goddamn wreck and Tony’s sinking down next to him in an instant—propelled by this blind, awful desire to comfort that’s manifested somewhere in the past few days. It cuts at his insides, dries up all his words, but he doesn’t try to shove it away.

He’s done being fucking numb, okay?

“Heya,” he says and gets a faint smile in response. At least Bucky still looks lucid. That’s good—he’s going to take that. “So this is some pretty crazy shit, huh?”

Bucky nods, glancing around the briefcase. In the eerie light Tony can now see that there’s some papers in here, the phone, a set of keys, a wallet, and candy. Wow, who knew M&Ms could look so terrifying. Like giant bright boulders. What a way to go that would be: crushed in an M&M landslide.

Fuck, how is this his life?

“Bet this doesn’t beat aliens, though,” Bucky says.

Tony shrugs, because honestly, this is actually pretty close.

“Feeling better?” Lang asks, coming back over to them.

Bucky nods but his shoulders are still tense and he’s not unfolding from his little protective ball. Lang, again, immediately picks up on this. Tony grudgingly raises his respect for him a notch—a very tiny notch. He still calls himself _Ant-Man._ Lang glances at the cell phone. 

“Hey, I bet if we made sure that’s on silent we could totally find a way to beast Bejewelled or something.”

Bucky blinks at him, uncomprehending, but Lang just makes a _follow me_ gesture and bounds back towards the phone. If this works, Tony thinks, he might actually have to be _grateful._

They trail after Lang, who has scrambled on top of the phone and is tapping out the passcode with his feet.

“Okay,” he calls down to them. “We have Bejewelled, Angry Birds, Candy Crush, Temple Run, and some kind of restaurant game.”

“I don’t know what any of that means,” Bucky says. “Besides Angry Birds.”

“Angry Birds it is, then!”

Bucky shrugs and clambers up onto the phone beside Lang. Seeing little choice and curious in spite of himself, Tony follows.

Seriously, _how_ is this his life?

Five minutes later, Lang is standing on one end of the phone like he’s a flag on a fucking golf course, waving his arms. “A little to the left!”

Bucky is crouched at the other end, pulling the slingshot back with a look of intense concentration.

“This,” Tony declares to no one in particular, “is possibly the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“Okay, okay, go!” Lang yells, dropping his arm. Bucky lets go of the slingshot. On the massive screen at Tony’s feet, a bird ploughs into the structure of pigs, destroying everything in one fell sweep. Lang does a victory spin as the screen shifts to a level summary, proudly displaying a new high score.

This is possibly the most ridiculous thing Tony’s ever seen, but Bucky is smiling—small and wan, but _there_ and his eyes are clear. That’s something.

He’s not sure if it’s worth two more hours of fucking _Angry Birds,_ though.

 

________________

 

**BUCKY**

He doesn’t think he’s ever been so glad to be normal-sized in his _life._ Though seeing the world from the perspective of an _ant_ isn’t something he thought possible until a few hours ago, in spite of seeing Lang in action in Germany.

Fuck, it’s been a weird day.

He shakes out his limbs as Lang hovers.

“How do you feel? Any side effects?”

What the fuck?

“Side effects?” He snaps, turning to glare at Lang, who shrugs with purposeful innocence.

“I’m not expecting any, but this is experimental, remember? And Hank Pym will kill me if I don’t bring some data back for him. So, how do you feel?”

_Does this hurt, sergeant?_

He suppresses a shiver. “Fine.”

“But let’s _never_ do that again,” Tony says from where he’s leaning against the car, fighting a bout of dizziness that Scott assured them was normal on the first go.

Bucky is in wholehearted agreement of that fact, even if Angry Birds was kind of a nice challenge when tiny. Still not worth the low key panic he can feel skittering through his veins. He looks around, cataloguing his surroundings in the way Steve had him practice—a technique from another one of those stupid, somewhat helpful, self-help books.

_Tell me what you see, Buck._

They’re in a parking lot belonging to Monterrey International Airport, according to Lang. It’s not late, but the days are getting shorter and the sun set at least an hour ago. The autumn air is cool, sharpening, and he tugs his jacket tighter around his shoulders.

“Okay,” Kurt says, stepping forward. “Scary lady will meet you here.”

“Who?” Tony asks with a frown.

Kurt shrugs. “Pretty, scary lady. Did not give name.”

“She’s gonna help you with the next step, bro,” Luis chimes in. “Just wait for her here.”

The only “pretty, scary lady” Bucky knows is in Europe with Steve. A glance at Tony reveals the same confusion. Still, if it’s help, they can’t exactly refuse it. He turns back to Scott. “Are you coming with us?”

Scott shakes his head, his normally bright smile turning wistful. “I have a few loose ends to clean up before I skip town. I’ll see you on the other side.”

Bucky reaches out to shake his hand. “Thank you, for everything.” He glances at Luis and Kurt and can’t help adding, “Look after him, yeah?”

Kurt nods and Luis grins. “Don’t worry, man. We’ve been keeping mad secrets for Scott ages before shit hit the fan. We got this.”

Scott rolls his eyes. “Look after yourselves, too. Even you, Stark.”

Tony gives a dismissive wave, not bothering to make eye contact. Bucky feels a pinprick of worry—Stark’s hit his head several times so far and the last thing they need is a concussion—but keeps his trap shut. Stark is as prickly as Steve when it comes to concern. Not that Bucky is much better, these days. He’s out of practice, even after over a year back with Steve. It still tends to blindside him.

Lang and Company depart with a wave, car rumbling and sputtering as the pull out of the parking lot, and Bucky takes a steadying breath, exhaling into the settling quiet. Fuck it’s too _still._ He pulls his cap down over his eyes and tells himself he’s being paranoid. They’re safe, for the moment—they can have a minute.

He still double checks the gun tucked into his waistband.

“Well this is fun,” Tony mutters. “How long are we supposed to sit here like ducks, exactly? Do you feel like you’re being watched? I feel like we’re being watched.”

As if on cue, a car rumbles to life across the row—headlights cutting bright through the gloom. Bucky draws the gun as a woman climbs out. He can’t make out her features, but she’s tall, athletic, and carries herself with a confidence that speaks of combat training.

“Relax,” she says, calm, as she steps into the circle of a streetlight. She _is_ pretty—sharp features that remind him of Natasha, dark, intelligent eyes, and brown hair piled on top of her head.

“Holy shit,” Tony says, moving forward. “ _Hill?”_

Well that’s an unexpected development. “You know her?” At Tony’s nod he lowers the gun, but keeps it at his side.

“Long story. Basically she used to work for me before she just went poof one day and vanished. Honestly, Hill, you couldn’t have sent a card or something? We worried.”

“Stark, good to see you.” Her voice drips with sarcasm. “And I handed in my two weeks’ notice.”

“Yeah, _after_ you left.”

Bucky has no idea what’s going on and it’s starting to grate. “What are you doing here now?”

“I owe Romanoff and Barton a favour,” Maria says, crossing her arms.

“Seriously,” anger creeps into Tony’s voice, “where the hell have you _been?”_

Hill shrugs. “Around. Fury and I have bigger fish to fry than you all behaving like five year olds.”

“Really? Bigger than the fucking Sokovia Accords?” Tony’s gaze is flat and hard, accusing.

Hill returns it, just as unmoving. “Bigger than anything on this Earth, Stark. And that’s all I’m going to say.”

Tony opens his mouth to protest and Bucky decides it’s time to intervene. “Great, touching reunion. Can we move on now?”

Tony glares at him, but backs down, and Hill beckons them over to her car. She pulls out two new backpacks, setting them on the hood. Bucky reaches for one, unzipping it quickly. Inside are…

“Passports, changes of clothes, tickets, and holographic masking technology for your faces and that arm,” Hill lists. 

He has no idea what holographic masking technology is, but Stark gives a low whistle so he figures it’s impressive. To be honest, he doesn’t care much at the moment—as long as it gets them through security fine and off this goddamn continent, he’ll put up with just about anything.

He’s done a lot worse to get back to Steve.

“From here you’re going to catch a flight to Paris. Change flights in Mexico City, going to Marrakesh. Change again in Amsterdam going to Istanbul. Again in Bucharest and finally Belgrade. Someone will meet you there,” Hill explains.

“Wow, this sounds like fun,” Tony mutters, leafing through the tickets.

Bucky does some quick calculations in his head—with all the changes it will probably take them around two days to reach Belgrade, half of that sitting in a metal can in the sky.

Perfect.

Hill ignores their trepidation. She reminds him of Natasha, only sharper—more refined. “Change faces and passports for each new flight. Barnes the cover for your arm only lasts eight hours. You have two spares in there.” She checks her phone. “Your flight leaves in an hour and a half.”

Bucky tamps down on his nerves and transfers his journals and some food to the new pack, handing Hill his old, bedraggled one. Tony does the same and then she’s nodding good-bye. “Tell Barton and Romanoff we’re even. And to stop hanging out with morons.”

Tony glares again, but Bucky’s starting to like her. He gives her a salute and manages to muster a smirk that once fit perfectly on his face. It doesn’t, anymore, but she still smiles back, wry, and that’s that.

“Maria Hill,” Tony says as they watch her pull out of the parking lot, a tinge of awe coating the words. “This day just keep getting weirder.”

 

________________

 

And weirder still, Bucky decides twenty minutes later, staring at a stranger’s face mirror of the airport bathroom. The mesh is so lightweight he barely feels it against his skin, moulding and shifting his features perfectly. When he blinks, so does the brown-eyed, middle-aged man in the mirror. He touches his face and the mesh doesn’t even shimmer. It feels like real skin beneath his fingertips.

Shit. He’s not sure he likes the future.

Tony steps up next to him, blue-eyed, moustached and twenty years younger. “This is exciting,” he says, poking his cheek as he examines himself in the mirror.

Bucky twitches with the urge to rip the stuff off his face. “That’s one word.”

Tony’s knowing gaze snaps to his face. “Right, no more preening. We have a flight to catch, c’mon. Chop, chop.”

He hands Bucky his pack and all but drags him from the bathroom. Bucky’s both irritated and grateful that Tony has somehow gotten to know him so well.

 

________________

 

The ten-hour flight to Amsterdam is the worst. The seats are uncomfortable and cramped, and the hum of the engines grates against his already raw nerves. By hour five, he can feel a scream steadily building in the back of his throat, and the armrest creaks beneath the grip of his metal fingers.

“Hey, you said you were Jewish, right?” Stark says suddenly.

Bucky blinks, thrown. “Yes.”

He’s not sure where Tony is going with this, but he hopes it isn’t any more deep questions. He definitely can’t handle that right now.

“I have a film you need to see,” Tony continues, tapping on the touch screen fixed to the seat in front of him. He pulls up a movie called _Inglorious Basterds_ and hands Bucky one ear of the crappy plane headphones. “You’ll like it I promise.”

It’s violent, wildly, _wildly_ historically inaccurate, and pretty much batshit insane.

He likes it. A lot. And the panic has settled for now—a low, manageable hum just beneath his skin instead of a roar.

“Scalping Nazis,” he murmurs as the credits roll. “Why didn’t we think of that?”

Tony shoots him a slightly wide-eyed look.

________________

 

They have two hours before the flight to Bucharest and after changing faces again, Bucky curls up one of the waiting room chairs and calls Steve.

Tony mutters something about “too much sap” and wanders off in search of food, giving Bucky some privacy.

Steve picks up almost immediately, _“Hey, Buck. Where are you?”_

“Amsterdam,” Bucky replies, tracing his flesh fingers over the holographic skin covering his metal arm. There’s something built in that hides it from sensors. It’s strange, having two arms again—looking _whole._ He doesn’t think he likes it. It doesn’t feel like who he is anymore.

That Bucky Barnes belongs to another, long-dead life.

 _“How are you?”_ Steve asks, gentle, and Bucky misses him fiercely. Aches to hold him.

Not long now, at least. Not long at all.

“Alive,” he replies with a sigh. “Tired.”

He hasn’t been able to sleep on the planes—too dangerous—and so hasn’t had more than a few hours of true rest in over a week.

Not that he’s going to tell Steve that. Definitely not. “And you?”

_“Fine. Better now that you’re almost here.”_

“Less than eight hours.” Bucky doesn’t care how pathetic he sounds. He hasn’t seen Steve in over a month and after seventy-one years apart he’d never wanted to spend a day without him again. Each one of these has been a small agony—a void in his chest and at his side where Steve should be.

 _“Thank God.”_ At least Steve sounds just as relieved—full of the same longing. _“Fuck I’ve missed you. Let’s never do this again, okay?”_

“Agreed. We’re too old for this shit.”

Steve laughs and Bucky drinks in the sound, let’s it settle between his ribs. _“And I think the others are going to kill me soon. Apparently we’re tragically co-dependent.”_

“Nah.” Bucky leans back in his seat, staring up at the florescent lights. “We’re just making up for lost time.”

“ _No shit.”_

“You know Tony finds the fact that you can swear hilarious. And weird. What the fuck were doing for those four years, Steve?” He means it as a joke, but Steve goes quiet.

 _“Not being myself,”_ he murmurs after a long, telling pause. 

They’ve talked a little about the four years Steve spent alone in the future, but probably not as much as they should have, Bucky is realising. “Steve…”

_“It’s fine. I’m fine, Buck.”_

“That’s bullshit, darling, but I don’t wanna start an argument right now.”

Tony is returning, winding his way through a maze of passengers and suitcases with two fast food bags in his hands. He takes the seat next to Bucky, handing him one, and Bucky can’t resist. “I’d rather talk about all the sex we’re gonna be having soon.”

Tony fixes him with such a hilariously betrayed look that it’s a struggle to keep a smile off his face.

Steve laughs again, bright and fucking beautiful. “ _As much as I love that idea, I think Sam, at least, would actually murder us if we tried screwing under the same roof as him.”_

Bucky shrugs. “So we’ll find a different roof. It’s a big city, right?”

Tony looks ready to throttle him and it’s great—even if he still feels a little uncomfortable talking about sex with Steve so candidly. This isn’t something they’ve ever discussed in front of other people before, but he’s trying to learn not to be frightened by it.

They don’t have to hide anymore and he damn well wants to take advantage of that.

 _"True, I'm sure we can find somewhere. After all, remember Italy and-"_ There's a burst of chatter from the phone and Steve cuts off, listening to words too muffled for Bucky to catch. “ _Shit, I'm sorry. We have to go. We're moving one last time before we meet up with you._   _I_ _love you,”_ Steve says—an ache in his voice that echoes in Bucky’s chest. _“See you soon.”_

“Soon,” Bucky echoes and forces himself to hang up.

Tony lobs a fry at his face. “You’re the worst, Barnes. I liked you better when you didn’t have a personality.”

Bucky gives him a fake, innocent grin and digs into his dinner.

 

________________

 

Clint Barton is waiting for them in Belgrade. Bucky has only seen him a handful of times since Germany, but it was enough to learn about Loki, about New York and everything that came before, and to forge an understanding. He, Clint, and Natasha should definitely start a club or something. Join the Formerly Brainwashed Assassins Support Group. We have T-shirts. 

Fuck, he's tired. 

“Hi, honey, I’ve missed you,” Clint says brightly and goes for a hug instead of a handshake.

Bucky rolls with it and feels Clint’s fingers tap code onto his chest.

_High security. Stick close. Head down._

Bucky taps an affirmative against Clint’s shoulder and pulls back, arranging his features into an affectionate smile. “Well, I’m here now. Let’s go.”

Clint glances at Tony, expression darkening slightly. “Still don’t see why we had to bring your idiot cousin along.”

Tony gives Clint a mean grin. “Because he likes me better than you, _darling._ ”

Clint tilts his head and points to his hearing aid. “Sorry, can’t hear you. Stupid thing’s acting up.”

“You’re a dick, Barton,” Tony says.

Clint ignores him, looping an arm through Bucky’s to guide them outside. Bucky leans into it, tilting his head down as if he were whispering to Clint. Tony trails two steps behind them, pretending to text on the burner phone.

The front doors are crawling with security guards, but they make it through unhindered. Thank God for this face mesh stuff. Clint’s got sunglasses and a stupid hat on and is huddled into Bucky just as much, like long lost lovers.

“Car’s parked on the first floor,” he murmurs as they enter the parking deck. “We’re gonna take a circular route back to the apartment but should be there in two hours or so. Then you can shut Steve up. This has been the worst four weeks of my life, I hope you know that. He just keeps … _emoting_ all over the place.”

Bucky smiles at the disgust and horror in Barton’s voice. All he would have to do is mention Natasha to shut Clint up, but he has to concede they’re probably not as bad as him and Steve.

Few couples are, most likely. But him and Steve have fucking earned it. 

They reach the car—a red Yugo Koral with peeling paint—and pile in. Tony slumps in the back seat, eyes already sliding closed. He didn't sleep on the planes either, and it’s been almost three days since the hotel in Illinois. Clint glances back at him, but leaves him be with a shake of his head.

“At least he’s quiet.”

Tony flips him off without opening his eyes and curls up, sinking deeper into sleep.

Clint doesn’t smile, but it looks like a near thing. “How close to passing out are you?” He asks as he merges into traffic.

Bucky shrugs. Right now, he’s thrumming with energy. Steve is _so_ close Bucky can almost taste his lips, feel the strength of his arms.

Fuck, he’s going to rattle out of his skin at this rate.

“I’ll collapse after I see Steve,” he says, drumming his fingers on his thigh.

“Ridiculous,” Barton says and then frowns over at him. “You can probably take the tech off now. It’s kind of freaking me out.”

Shit, he’d completely forgotten. He peels the mesh from his face and neck with a faint sigh relief and does the same to his arm. He never thought he’d be _pleased_ see the glint of the metal reflecting in the morning light, but fuck he is.

“Never mind,” Barton drawls. “You looked better with it on.”

Bucky might have missed him, too. Just a little.

“Fuck off.”

“Well at least you’re still an asshole. That’s good to see.”

“And you’re still an idiot.”

Clint shrugs, unaffected. The skyscrapers gleam in the morning light and Bucky is two hours away from Steve.

In his chest his heart beats mad and wild.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just pretending that Fury and Hill are off looking into the infinity stones to explain their absence from Civil War. The holographic tech is based on what Natasha uses in The Winter Soldier. 
> 
> And gah, more new characters. I'm always nervous writing new characters. Hopefully everyone's okay.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, right?

We are waiting for love to save us

Something borrowed

An oxymoron

Or absolute truth

―  **Sarah Bartlett**  

________________

 

**TONY**

The apartment building Barton pulls up to is worn and decaying, blending in with the rest of the dilapidated block. Tony has no doubt that he’d get violently stabbed if he attempted to wander into any of the nearby alleys by himself.

“Charming,” he says as he exits the car.

“We thought so,” Barton replies, matching Tony’s sarcasm.

They leave the car sitting on the curb like a vibrant red target. At Tony’s questioning look, Barton shrugs. “Saves us having to get rid of it.”

Bucky snorts softly in amusement and then Barton is pulling open the filthy front door. “We don’t have an elevator and we’re on the top floor,” he informs them. Tony dies a little inside. “If you pass out I’m leaving you.”

“Same goes for you,” Bucky fires back and then gestures Tony ahead of him.

Tony gets the impression that if _he_ passes out, Bucky isn’t going to leave him, which is nice. Even if he’d already be long dead of embarrassment for letting a few flights of stairs get the better of him.

He can do this.

Eleven flights later, he’s revised that stupidly optimistic outlook. Fuck, he thinks his lungs have somehow _caught fire_ and his legs have turned to absolute jelly. Barton is a whole flight ahead of them and Bucky is half pushing, half dragging Tony up each laborious step. 

“If you offer to carry me, I’m punching you,” Tony manages to gasp out in response to the concerned looks Bucky keeps shooting him.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Bucky replies. “You’re way too heavy.”

Tony gives him a weak shove for that and stubbornly doesn’t ask how much further. He doesn’t want to see the smug satisfaction that would be written all over Barton’s face.

“Right,” Barton says cheerfully seven flights later, stopping in front of a nondescript wooden door. “Here we are.”

Tony leans against the wall and pants, struggling to get his lungs working properly again. Panic layered on top of exhaustion is making it hard. Steve is on the other side of that fucking door. Steve and all the bloody wounds they’ve carved into each other. 

Metal fingers curl around his shoulder and he turns to see Bucky giving him a solemn look. “I love him,” Barnes murmurs quietly, for Tony’s ears only. “More than anything. But I get it, Tony.”

 _I’m in your corner,_ Bucky is saying and fuck, that means a hell of a lot.

Tony gives him a wobbly smile in return and then Barton is throwing open the front door and calling brightly, “Honey, I’m home! And I’ve brought the kids!”

Tony takes a deep breath and forces himself to cross the threshold into the apartment. It’s more spacious than he anticipated - an open, airy living room with several doors off to the side and what’s probably a kitchen around the corner of a small hallway.

“You might want to get out of the way,” Barton tells him as the sound of approaching footsteps grow louder.

He obeys and good thing, too, because suddenly a human-shaped blur barrels straight into Bucky, hitting him with such force that Bucky staggers back a step.

Steve, Tony knows instantly.

Bucky regains his balance, makes a sound that’s full of stunned, gut-wrenching relief, and then he’s hugging Steve back just as fiercely. Tony can’t see Steve’s face from where it’s buried in Bucky’s shoulder, just a shock of surprisingly dark hair, but he’s holding onto Bucky like Bucky is a life raft in the middle of a storm.

They’re not even kissing, but it’s surprisingly intimate and Tony suddenly feels like an intruder. There’s love in every fucking line of their bodies and God, he misses Pepper with an ache so sharp it feels close to cutting him in half.

“C’mon,” Barton says, tugging him towards the kitchen. “They’re gonna be awhile.”

He trails after Barton, forcing himself not to look back at the two men locked in an embrace in the middle of the living room. 

Star-crossed lovers, indeed.

Natasha and Sam Wilson are seated at the kitchen table, eyeing him with unreadable expressions, and he reminds himself to keep breathing.

He’s still Tony fucking Stark and he can take whatever they want to dish out.

He _can._  

________________

 

**BUCKY**

He wants to stay here forever. Right here: wrapped up in Steve’s arms. It’s the safest place he knows and he shifts closer, wishing he could somehow burrow into Steve’s skin and never be separated from him again. Steve’s breath is hot against his neck and Steve’s fingers are digging bruises into his back, but he doesn’t care.

He’s _home._

Steve starts to pull back and a pathetic, distressed sound spills past his lips before he can stop it. Steve laughs in a warm burst of air across his skin and his hands move, cupping Bucky’s cheeks, thumbs stroking gently along the bone. His eyes are blue and wet and he’s smiling—small, affectionate, _breath-taking_ —and he’s the most beautiful goddamn thing Bucky has ever seen.

Always has been.

“I got you,” he says. “I got you, Buck. You’re safe. You made it.”

“Fuck,” Bucky mumbles eloquently and shifts so he can press his forehead against Steve’s as Steve’s hands move back to his hips. He can feel the exhaustion like lead lining his bones, burning behind his eyes, and he’s pretty sure Steve and sheer force of will are the only two things holding him together, but honestly, what else is new?

“I’ve missed you so much,” he manages. “So fucking much, Steve.”

“I know,” Steve replies. “Me too.”

And then Steve is kissing him, deep and open—tongue curling hot against his own and his mind and heart beat like a war drum in the same frantic rhythm: an endless chant of _yes yes yes yes._

Fuck, _fuck,_ he’s finally home.

Tony and the others are in the kitchen, could walk around the corner at any moment, but he finds he doesn’t care as he gets his hands under Steve’s shirt, desperate to feel his skin, warm and flushed and _alive._ Here, after seventy years, after HYDRA, after the Accords, and now after Ross and the chair—against all the odds and all the attempts to take him away.

It’s only when Steve breaks the kiss that Bucky realises his face is wet and he’s started to shake—relief and exhaustion and leftover terror shredding him up inside.

“Shit, Buck,” Steve is saying, worry creasing his face. “When was the last time you slept?”

He blinks, remembers that he doesn’t want Steve to know the answer to that, and shakes his head. Steve frowns and his features harden in what he’s heard Sam call Steve’s _Captain America Look_ but is all 30s Brooklyn when Steve barely came above his shoulder and yet was determined to protect him, take care of him—skinny as a rake, sicker than a dog, and yet always too fucking big for his skin.

“Bucky…” Steve begins and Bucky shakes his head again, wiping his sleeve across his face before shifting to wrap his arm around Steve’s waist. “Buck, c’mon…” Steve still tries, but Bucky swallows the rest of the impending lecture with another kiss.

Steve sighs into it and Bucky can feel the moment he admits defeat, pressing in closer. They linger for several moments and Bucky loses himself in the feel of Steve’s mouth and hands—uses them as stitches to sew up his armour.

When he pulls back, Steve’s eyes are still dark with concern, but he doesn’t push. Thank God.

“Got a shower?” Bucky asks, remembering rather suddenly that he hasn’t had one in three days and he’s probably starting to smell. Panic pricks up his spine at that, sharp and vicious. He tries and probably fails to keep it off his face, if Steve’s expression softening into something tender and _knowing_ is anything to judge by.

Steve rubs a soothing hand down his back. “I can do better than that.”

He leads Bucky by the hand to the main bedroom, which surprisingly has an en suite with a decent sized bathtub. It’s old and sturdy and Steve presents it with a triumphant wave—like he’s showing Bucky the eighth goddamn wonder of the world or something, the dork.

Though right now a bath with warm water sounds pretty close to a world wonder. 

“Fuck yes,” Bucky sighs, squeezing Steve’s hand in thanks.

Steve smiles at him and leans in to press a kiss to Bucky’s temple that Bucky unashamedly soaks up like a sponge. God, he’s touch-starved—almost as badly as he was after Siberia, when he realised that Steve wasn’t going anywhere and Steve’s love and affection were still as free and steady as always. As _Before._

“Strip,” Steve orders gently as he goes to turn on the taps. The pipes creak and groan within the walls, just like the bathroom in their tenement in Brooklyn. It’s an oddly soothing sound.

He can’t resist giving Steve a sarcastic salute before he starts shrugging off his jacket. Steve rolls his eyes and turns his back to dig around in the cabinet near the sink, giving Bucky privacy as he disrobes. Bucky’s heart clenches at the gesture, the fact that even after so many years of blood and change, Steve still knows him backwards and forwards and inside and out.

Granted, most of Bucky’s triggers have been discovered by tripping headfirst over them, but Steve never forgets where the landmines are or how to navigate around them after the initial stumble.

Fuck, Bucky loves him so much. Sometimes it burns like a wildfire in his tattered heart and lungs—too big for his body to contain.

He piles his clothes next to the tub and gets in, letting out an involuntary sigh as the warm water soothes his sore muscles. The floorboards creak as Steve returns, kneeling next to the tub. Bucky opens his eyes to smile at him, reaching out to brush his fingers along the beard that’s been a permanent fixture since they went on the run. It makes him look less like the hero in the museums and the textbooks and the comic books and it suits him more than Bucky first thought it would—a new image for a new chapter.

“Hey,” Steve says nonsensically, smiling back. He touches the ring that’s resting against Bucky’s chest and then drags his fingers up to the ridge of Bucky’s cheek and brow.

Bucky stiffens slightly, realising that he’s tracing where the machine fit against his skin. “Steve…”

“How many times?”

Goddamnit. Bucky _knew_ he was going to ask that. He frowns at Steve in frustration, but Steve’s eyes beg him not to lie and he already knows that he can’t, he won’t.

Not to Steve.

“Four times.” Steve makes a low, angry sound of pain and slides his fingers into Bucky’s hair, pressing his mouth to those points instead. Bucky shivers beneath the intimate touch and reminds himself that it’s _over._

“They were stepping it up to twice a day when Tony broke me out,” he continues as Steve pulls back.

“Fucking bastards,” Steve says, fierce, and Bucky nods in weary agreement. “HYDRA was one thing, but this … fuck, Bucky, this is the goddamn _United Nations._ The Secretary of State.”

“And you can’t fight them all,” Bucky fires back, because he knows Steve inside and out and he can see the fury burning in him like a furnace.

“Watch me,” Steve grumbles. “Ross at least. This whole mess was probably his idea. We can at least make sure that he—”

“Steve,” Bucky interrupts, putting his hand over Steve’s and prying it free from its death grip on the edge of the tub. There’s a small crack in the porcelain. “Later, okay?”

There are only so many battles they can win and Bucky doubts this is one of them, but he doesn’t have the energy to argue right now—to talk Steve back from the edge his fury and desire for justice is pushing him to. Thankfully, Steve softens immediately.

“Sorry. Let me wash your hair?”

He holds up a bottle of shampoo—one of those tiny hotel ones, and it’s so ridiculous Bucky wants to laugh.

He doesn’t have the energy for that, either, though. Or lifting his arms.

“Fine,” he sighs out, sinking deeper into the water.

Steve kisses his shoulder, at the scarred intersection of skin and metal, then his neck. Bucky wants to strip him down and pull him into the tub, too, because God, sex with Steve is still the greatest thing ever, even after all these years, and he craves the comfort and pleasure it will bring. But he can also feel old, familiar fear running restless just beneath his skin.

Even though it’s _Steve_ and he’s never feared Steve a day in his life, being naked and exposed like this isn’t fun with all the _shit_ and ghosts of his past so close to the surface.

He shifts so he can seal his mouth over Steve’s, trying to keep himself grounded, and then says, quiet, “Hair?”

As usual, Steve hears everything he isn’t saying, sees everything he’s managed to keep from showing on his face, and nods. “Right, sit up a little?”

Bucky complies and Steve wets his hair, scrubbing shampoo in with gentle efficiency. “You want to shave, too?”

Bucky touches the month’s worth of beard growing on his face and shakes his head. “Later.”

Steve hums in easy agreement, kissing his shoulder again. Bucky leans forward as Steve starts to rinse out his hair. The clean feeling is amazing and he basks in it—closer to whole than he’s been in fucking weeks.

“There,” Steve announces. “You look as close to presentable as you’re capable of getting.”

“Fuck off,” Bucky huffs and Steve grins at him—bright and loving, twisting up Bucky’s stomach.

“Aw, honey, I love you, too,” Steve teases.

Bucky flips him off as Steve gets up and Steve musses his hair in retaliation. Sam once announced that they bicker like an old married couple, but that’s been true since they were fifteen.

“I’ll get you some clean clothes,” Steve says and slips out the door, closing it behind him.

Bucky takes the opportunity Steve has given him to quickly wash himself off and exit the tub. He’s wrapping a towel around his waist when Steve returns with a bundle of clothes.

“I don’t have anything to sleep in besides boxers. That okay?”

He looks so honestly concerned about it that Bucky can’t resist reaching out to cup his cheek. “It’s fine. It’s not that bad right now.” There have been occasional nights when Bucky's needed at least five layers before he felt safe and was _still_ ready to jump out of his skin at the slightest touch. This isn’t one of them.

He’s too exhausted for that kind of paranoia right now. 

His knees are feeling weak—body finally starting to shut down without his permission—and he puts a hand on Steve’s shoulder when he starts to move away, a silent request. Steve kisses his temple in response. “I got you.”

Steve helps him dress in boxers and a sweater and then gives him a contemplative look. “You know I could probably carry you if—”

“Don’t you fucking dare, Rogers,” Bucky says, though it comes out a rather pathetic mumble. “I can walk the twenty feet to the bed by myself.”

Steve holds his hands up in surrender and still hovers like the goddamn mother hen he is all the way to the bed. Bucky collapses onto it face first, the springs creaking loudly beneath his weight. It’s the most comfortable bed he’s ever laid on and he doesn’t bother to stifle an appreciative groan.

Steve is still hovering, the absolute idiot, and Bucky manages to shift onto his side, staring up at him. “Are you staying?”

Steve nods immediately and then hesitates. “If you want me to?”

God, he’s such a moron.

Bucky lifts the covers. “Get in here and fucking cuddle me.”

“Yessir,” Steve says, because he’s also a little shit, and slides into the bed, wrapping an arm around Bucky’s waist.

He’s a warm, solid weight against Bucky’s back, and Bucky is asleep between one breath and the next.

 

________________

 

**TONY**

They’ve sat him down at the kitchen table and put a bowl of soup in front of him and now they’re all just _sitting there_ and watching him like some kind of terrifying peanut gallery. He’s starving, but he’s not about to eat with an audience like this, nope, and he needs to deal with the panic clawing at his insides before it becomes a full-fledged attack.

“So,” he says with as much false cheer as he can muster (which—c’mon, he’s still _Tony Stark_ —is a lot), “who’s throwing the first punch?”

He points his spoon at Wilson. “I’m guessing you?” He moves the spoon to Barton. “Or you?”

“No one is throwing any punches,” Natasha says with her usual calm. “We can’t break this furniture.”

Barton signs something to her, too quick for Tony to catch, and the corner of her mouth pulls up in a private smile. They’ve always had _something,_ those two, but it’s still weird to witness. He doesn’t dwell on it for long, though, because Wilson is looking at him with a serious expression and right, they’re doing this.

He just wants it over before a) his soup gets cold and-or b) he has the biggest panic attack yet.

“I told you to go as a friend,” Wilson says. “If I’m remembering that conversation right.”

“In my defence,” Tony starts and watches both Wilson and Barton sit up straighter, eyes narrowing, and you know what? Fuck it. He can learn from his mistakes. He’s a grown ass man. “I’m sorry,” he finishes instead. “Okay? I am. I … it was a goddamn mess, all of it. And I’m sorry. I was wrong. Not about everything,” he shoots Barton a pointed look. “But enough. I shouldn’t have … I should have seen Ross coming, seen what he was trying to do, and I’m sorry I didn’t. I didn’t want us to end up like this.”

There’s a long, painful pause, and then Wilson says, “Man. You just apologised three times in less than thirty seconds. I think I’ve witnessed a miracle.”

Tony rolls his eyes at him and hides his shaking hands in his lap. “Ha ha.”

“Look,” Barton cuts in, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest, “I still don’t appreciate the whole being thrown in a giant underground prison and pretty much left to rot thing, but … we know what you did for Barnes. And that goes a long way.”

Tony lets out the breath he didn’t even realise he was holding as Natasha adds, “And we’re all in this together now. We need to forgive and move on or we’re never going to survive.”

Wilson nods. “Besides, I don’t think it’s our opinion you care about.”

“I do,” Tony insists, a little surprised at the depth of his own sincerity. “Look … you guys are all I have left, okay? The company is gone and I can’t ever talk to Pepper and Rhodey again or I risk putting them in danger so … you’re it. And I care. And that’s as vulnerable as I’m going to be so take it or leave it.”

The three of them have an unspoken conversation that Tony can’t follow and then Wilson nods again. “I think we can work with that.”

Well. Tony blows out another relieved breath. They have a start, at least. And if these three aren’t ready to spit daggers at him then maybe Steve—

He shuts that thought down quickly. Soup. He’s going to eat his soup right now and hopefully sleep for a goddamn _week_ and _not_ think about the impending conversation with Steve until he absolutely has to.

“I’m going to check the perimeter,” Clint announces, rising from the table.

Natasha stands, as well, fixing Tony with a stern look. “Get some rest, Stark. And eat the soup. Sam made it so it should only be mildly poisonous.”  

“That’s funny,” Sam deadpans back.

Tony tries not to let just how much he’s missed this, missed _them,_ show as he swallows his first spoonful of the soup. Or that he’s probably about ten seconds away from face planting into it.

Maybe he’ll sleep for two weeks. That sounds good.

He looks across the table to where Sam’s still sitting. “How’s life as international fugitives? Got any tips?”

It’s a fucking stupid question, but he babbles when he’s on edge—sue him.

Sam humours him, because he’s a decent human being who has far more patience than should be possible with his choice of friends. “Sounds like you’ve gotten a pretty good taste the past week. Honestly, just keep looking like a homeless drug addict and you should be fine.”

Tony makes a face at him and eats the rest of the soup way too quickly. Sam, because again decent human being, doesn’t comment. Tony knows he must look like a train wreck. He’s still got fading cuts and bruises on his face from the car crash and he hasn’t slept or eaten properly in over a week (probably more like a year, but that’s more honest with himself than he wants to be right now.).

“You should sleep, man,” Sam says as Tony pushes the bowl away. “We can talk more later. Steve and Bucky aren’t going to resurface any time soon.”

He would make a joke about wild amounts of sex, but the idea of Steve, goddamn bastion of American purity and innocence, going at it with Barnes is too much for him to handle at the moment. Besides, he’s pretty sure Bucky passed out as soon as Steve got him in even the general proximity of a bed.

Speaking of which.

“Where am I going?” He asks as he forces himself to his feet. He has to lean against the table for support, but he’s going to make it to a goddamn bed on his own power or die of shame.

Sam points to a blessedly nearby door. “Right through there. Knock yourself out.”

“Shouldn’t have to,” Tony mutters and uses the table to give himself some momentum.

“Want a change of clothes or something?” Sam calls after him and he waves in distracted dismissal. Too much effort.

The room is small and the bed narrow, but it’s _clean_ and that counts for a lot, these days. Tony manages to get himself out of his jacket, jeans, and shoes before he collapses into an undignified heap on the mattress.

There’s still anxiety prickling at the back of his throat—the idea of seeing Steve again properly, having an actual conversation with words and _feelings_ looming large and a little terrifying in his mind—but for now he’s safe.

And his exhausted body swiftly pulls his troubled mind into dreamless sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

sing me a raga spin

me a garland

oh earth

but do not yet welcome me

 

Show me the sun. 

―  **Peg Boyers**

 

________________

 

**_From the journals of James Barnes, 2017:_ **

_Sometimes, I actually miss our shitty apartment in Brooklyn Heights. That ratty old couch that always leaking stuffing, the bed that creaked every time you so much as shifted, the stove that took forever to light, and the table that was so broken we constantly had to put things under the legs to keep it from wobbling uncontrollably._

_Sometimes, I can still see you there, clear as anything, preserved in amber: sitting at that table in your boxers, skinny legs swinging as you drew by lantern light. I can hear your laughter and the groan of the floorboards as I tried to teach you the Lindy. I can feel the bed springs digging into my back as I held myself still—hand over my mouth to stifle my moans at the touch of your lips to my cock._

_Even though it was falling down around our ears, I always felt safe there. I could touch you, kiss you, make love to you—whatever we wanted. Our bubble tucked away from the rest of the world._

_The building’s gone now, probably. Bulldozed to make way for a row of fancy brownstones. I couldn’t believe it when I read that Brooklyn Heights is now one of the most affluent neighbourhoods in the city. How times change, right?_

_And a part of me is angry that all of that history, all of **our** history, is gone because no one cares about who we were before the war. And a part of me is glad because those memories, those moments, are ours and ours alone to cherish—not put up in some museum for strangers to admire and analyse and judge. _

_Our love is still just yours and mine and that’s the way it should be._

________________

**BUCKY**

He wakes with a jolt, hand reaching under the pillow for a knife that’s no longer there. He panics for a moment when his fingers clutch empty air and there’s an arm draped across his waist, a chest pressed up against his back—who…?

He blinks, taking in the peeling wallpaper and the hot breath at the back of his neck, and lets his memories slot back into their proper place.

Belgrade. _Steve._

He relaxes with a faint sigh, sinking back into Steve’s warmth, and Steve murmurs, “Done freaking out?”

“Fuck you,” Bucky mutters back without much heat—sleep still clinging to his bones, fogging the corners of his mind.

“If you want,” Steve offers, amusement dripping from the words, and Bucky elbows him in the stomach.

He _does_ want, he _always_ wants, but this isn’t the time. He settles for rolling over and slotting his mouth against Steve’s, morning breath be damned, and that quickly turns into warm hands sliding under his shirt, caressing his chest, his nipples, and the scars on his back.

Steve stops at his waist, though, and Bucky is simultaneously grateful for the understanding and frustrated by his own trauma.

Fucking Ross.

“I didn’t get to ask last night,” Steve says when they’ve pulled apart. “How … your memory…?”

“Is fine,” Bucky replies immediately, hating the _fear_ in Steve’s voice that he’s trying so hard to hide. “They … it wasn’t enough, what they were doing. I haven’t been wiped in so long that my brain’s completely healed itself. They were starting over. It would have taken a couple months to erase everything.”

He doesn’t mention how hard he fought to keep all of it, replaying memories every single night—stubbornly holding on through the fear and the nausea and the blood he could feel leaking out of his mouth and ears. He’d spent one pathetic night sobbing into the cold floor of his cell when he realised that he couldn’t for the life of him remember what neighbourhood their old apartment was in or what some of the Commandos looked like, and familiar numbness was creeping in—the Winter Soldier, waiting in the wings.

He’d been able to feel himself slipping away, small piece by small piece, and the next time he’d seen Stark it was easy to beg for a gun.

Steve’s chapped lips press against his temple, dragging him back to the present, and he musters a wan smile. “I’m okay.”

“No you’re not,” Steve fires back, fierce, and his eyes are burning with love and grief and rage. “I still can’t believe…”

“I healed again,” Bucky insists, and it’s true enough. Even if some wounds are still bleeding, sluggish and persistent, he’ll survive and they’ll scar over eventually. They always do. “And I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

It’s a petty card to play, because guilt will keep Steve from pushing now, but he’s still tired and they’re not out of the woods yet.

“Right,” Steve says, quiet, and sits up, blanket pooling to his waist. Bucky follows him, pressing a kiss to the nape of his neck in silent apology.

Steve twists to kiss him properly and they lose themselves for a breath, two, three, before Steve pulls away with a regretful sigh.

“I guess we should go talk to the others.”

Bucky runs a hand through his messy hair, sticking up everywhere because he’d slept without brushing it, and grimaces. He still feels not quite human yet, not quite back to his fucked up approximation of normal, but he doesn’t exactly know what will help.

Getting fucking wiped again was never a factor in his developing coping mechanisms.

“Got a comb and some clean clothes?” He asks, because it’s somewhere to start, and Steve slips out of bed. The morning air is cold against his skin without Steve’s warmth and he shudders.

Steve is back quickly, dumping a bundle of clothes in his lap. “Umm … do you want me to step out for a minute?”

Bucky shakes his head, determined now, and climbs out of bed. He strips in fast, efficient movements and notices that Steve doesn’t look away, either—watching instead with a soft, almost lovesick expression that makes Bucky want to roll his eyes and kiss him all at once. It’s a contradiction he’s always felt around Steve.

Steve loves like a freight train, a hurricane, a forest fire—all consuming, all-in, a hundred miles an hour—and Bucky has never quite known what to do with it even as he drowns and burns and loves back just as hard. He presents his blood-stained hands and battered mind and broken body to Steve over and over and expects him to turn away, to dial back, to _judge._

He never does and Bucky is trying to accept that it’s not about worthiness. Steve will love him regardless.

It’s incredible and terrifying in equal measure.

He pulls the sweater over his head and zips up his jeans. The ring thuds faintly against his chest, an ever-present reminder of all his hard-won victories. He touches it briefly and smiles at Steve, who has also finished dressing.

Steve immediately pulls him close again, kissing down his neck. “Let me do your hair?”

“Fine,” he concedes, knowing that Steve needs to take care of him right now just as much as he wouldn’t mind being taken care of.

Steve perches behind him on the bed and runs the comb through Bucky’s tangles, keeping his touch light. Bucky figures now is as good a time as any to bring up the impending team discussion.

“Steve, about Tony … go easy on him, okay?”

“I don’t hate him,” Steve insists.

“But you haven’t exactly forgiven him.”

“He tried to kill you.”

“Can you blame him?” Bucky asks. “He didn’t know me. I was just the guy that murdered his parents.” He twists to glance at Steve over his shoulder, taking in the hard set of Steve’s jaw and the uncertainty in his eyes. “He knows me now. We’re okay, and you need to be, too. We’ll never make it, otherwise.”

Steve blows out a breath and goes back to combing. “You’re right. And what he did for you … I didn’t expect that. But … we’ve never gotten along, Buck. I don’t know if we’re gonna magically start now.”

Bucky shrugs. “You don’t have to be best friends, Steve. Just … lower some of those walls, okay? It sounds to me like he’s only really met Captain America so far and that guy is fucking insufferable.”

Steve punches him none too lightly in the shoulder, but Bucky just grins at him. “You know I’m right.”

“Yes,” Steve concedes after a moment, setting the comb aside. “You usually are.”

“Damn straight.” Bucky shifts on the bed and takes his hand, squeezing tightly. Steve smiles at him, fragile and warm.

They’re going to be okay. He has to keep believing that. They’ve already survived so fucking much—he won’t let Ross be the one that kills them.

He _won’t._

 

________________

 

**TONY**

He’s back at the rickety kitchen table with another bowl in front of him—oatmeal this time, with a truly sickening amount of brown sugar dumped in, courtesy of Clint Barton—but at least the peanut gallery isn’t staring. Clint and Natasha are carrying on a conversation that Tony gave up following about a minute in, hands a blur, and Wilson is sharpening a rather terrifying amount of knives.

“Where the hell did you get all of those?” He asks for the sake of conversation.

Sam shrugs. “Around. We’ve all been adding to the collection. They’re easier to stow than guns. We don’t exactly pack heavy artillery these days.”

“Right.” He reaches out to touch one of the bigger ones and gets his hand slapped away. “Ow.”

Wilson smirks at him, the bastard, and keeps cleaning. He can’t tell if Natasha and Clint are arguing or just having an enthusiastic discussion. Something about strategy and escape plans, he _thinks,_ so really that could go either way. There’s no sign of Clint’s arrows anywhere, which is just weird.

This whole thing is weird. _Super_ weird.

If not for the, you know, rather pathetic surroundings they could be at the Tower, and Tony stupidly, _foolishly,_ wants to sit here forever, in this quiet moment where none of the last three or so years happened—free of all the wounds they’ve cut into each other, the pressure that has been put on them. Like this they’re not the Avengers, just Tony’s bizarre, fucked up little family, and _God,_ he missed them.

Wilson is eyeing him with that knowing, observant look he does so freakishly well and Tony opens his mouth even though he has absolutely no clue what to say.

There’s a loud creak of floorboards before he can get any words out and he spins in his chair, heart suddenly climbing into his throat while his stomach sinks like a ball of lead. Bucky enters the kitchen first, looking more human than Tony thinks he’s ever seen him—and Tony definitely appreciates the rather funny sight of the former Winter Soldier in a fluffy hoodie. He gives Tony a faint smile and somehow it’s enough to calm some of Tony’s frayed nerves.

But right behind him is Steve.

He looks different, is the first thing Tony clocks, rougher. The beard and dark hair give him a grown up edge—divorce him from Captain America, the blonde-haired, fresh-faced golden boy. It would be like meeting a stranger, if not for those blue eyes that still seem to peer right into Tony’s fucking soul and find all the stains.

He stiffens in his seat, wondering if he should stand or something, but that’s ridiculous, Tony, get a hold of yourself. He ends up tightening his grip on his bowl of oatmeal, drawing it protectively in front of him like, _ha_ , a shield. It’s still absolutely ridiculously, but give him a break, okay? The last time he saw Steve Rogers they were trying to kill each other and for a moment when Steve lifted the shield over his head, Tony thought it was going to come down on his skull. That’s not something you forget easily.

Steve has paused just inside the doorway, staring at him with a helpfully blank expression. Tony wills himself to say something, _anything c’mon,_ but his voice has frozen. Then Bucky shifts and elbows Steve in the side, _hard,_ and somehow that breaks the weird spell that’s descended over the kitchen.

Steve nods at him. “Tony.”

Well at least he’s opening with “Tony.” This is marginally warmer than their first meeting in Stuttgart.

“Steve,” Tony manages, hating how stilted his voice sounds.

Bucky rolls his eyes and brushes past them, stopping by Natasha and bending down to give her a hug. They start speaking softly in Russian and Tony tunes them out, still focused on Steve lingering by the door.

Steve shifts. The floorboards groan again under his weight. If Tony didn’t know better, he would think Steve looks _awkward,_ but he does know better and Steve is usually only awkward when his love life (or anyone’s love life) is brought up. Not in situations like this. Captain America _thrives_ in situations like this.

But … well, this isn’t Captain America, is it?

Huh.

“God,” Wilson says, gesturing to the two empty seats at the table. “Sit down, will you? Eat some of Barton’s godawful oatmeal—”

“Heyyy.”

“—and relax, okay? You two are making me embarrassed for you.”

Bucky is already at the stove, scooping up two bowls of oatmeal, and Tony experiences a brief, stupid moment of gratitude when Bucky takes the seat immediately to his left, leaving the one next to that open for Steve.

“Sleep okay?” He asks with a wry smile as Steve balances himself on the rickety chair.

Tony grins back, happy even if this is the saddest joke in existence. “It’s much easier without revolting stains on the mattress, isn’t it?”

“Imagine that.” Bucky takes a bite of his oatmeal and nearly chokes.

“Told you,” Wilson says without looking up. Clint flips him off.

“He’s right,” Natasha adds and gets a hilariously betrayed look in response.

Tony almost wants to laugh at this odd little parlay. No emotional discussions over breakfast, it seems. Which, hey, fine by him—he can use this time to tell, or rather _attempt_ to tell, his mounting panic to kindly fuck off.

Steve has an arm draped across the back of Bucky’s chair, casual and still so intimate, and Tony wonders once again how he didn’t guess.

Maybe because he’s probably incapable of love like that? But that’s not really a hole he needs to go down. Just eat your shitty oatmeal, Stark.

When everyone’s finished, Steve clears the bowls because of course he does. There’s another silence that lingers just long enough to be awkward, before Natasha leans forward in her chair and says decisively, “Strategy talk first. Then Steve and Tony can have their heart to heart.”

“Fine by me,” Steve jumps in immediately and Tony nods, not bothering to hide his own relief at the idea. Thank God for Natasha Romanoff.

Natasha leans back in her seat. She’s cut her hair again to just beneath her chin, but it’s still as fiery red as ever. Tony wonders if perhaps that’s an act of defiance. She’s always been good at subtle, elegant “fuck yous” and refusing to dye her hair to better hide from Ross is definitely one, simply because she doesn’t _need_ to. She’s Black Widow and she’ll always be out of Ross’ reach—red hair or not.

Absurdly, that makes Tony feel almost _safe._

At least he’s with the best, right?

“For the newcomers,” she says with a smile at Bucky and a cool glance at him, “we received a coded transmission yesterday from Wakanda. They’re offering us asylum.”

“Wakanda?” Bucky asks sceptically. “Isn’t that the country whose ruler wanted to kill me for the death of his father?”

“They apologised for that,” Clint replies cheerfully. “Sort of.”

“They mentioned what happened in New York and Ross’ manipulation of the committee. They’ve stepped down from it,” Natasha continues. “And as reparation for what's happened, they want to offer us a safe haven. Their words.”

“And this isn’t a trap how?” Tony points out because honestly, one of the wealthiest, most technologically advanced nations in the world suddenly going “hey, come hang here for free!” to a bunch of internationally wanted criminals seems way too good to be true.

“We don’t know,” Sam says. “It could be. But we don’t exactly have a lot of options right now.”

“Bucky breaking out of what was supposed to be the most secure facility in the world like it was a walk in the park definitely raised our profile,” Natasha adds, wry. “And billionaire genius Tony Stark helping him only freaked people out even more.”

Great. Not unexpected, per se, but still not welcome news.

“The list of countries we’re wanted in just keeps getting longer,” Clint says, twirling one of the knives. “We’re gonna run out of places to hide real fast, no matter how good we are at it.”

Bucky blows out a breath and turns in his chair, “Steve?”

Steve, who up until this point has been staring at the stained wood of the table like it contains the secrets of the universe, jumps slightly, blinking at Bucky. Tony swallows back an instinctive sarcastic comment. No pissing off the people that are going to get him to safety.

“They’re right,” Steve says with a tired shrug. “We’re out of options. Even if Wakanda turns out to be a trap, it’s a risk we have to take.”

Bucky doesn’t look pleased with this development and Tony doesn’t blame him. Still, if by very small chance it _doesn’t_ turn out to be a nasty trap, the opportunity to see _Wakanda_ is incredibly exciting. All that secret technology. God, he would have an absolute _field day._

But it’s probably a trap and they’re going to die horribly. Better to be realistic about these things.

“Fine,” Bucky says after a moment. “But I’m assuming we can’t all travel together?”

“Hell, no,” Clint fires back immediately. “I am not spending that much time in close quarters with any of you.”

 _Except Natasha,_ is heavily implied. Tony very carefully doesn’t roll his eyes.

“We were thinking of splitting into two teams,” Natasha says. “Sam, Clint, and I are less noticeable. We can go ahead and scope out the terrain. Find the best way across the border, see if it _is_ a trap, and then relay information back to you.”

“We’ll still need to leave Belgrade,” Steve adds. “We’ve already stayed too long, but we’ll give Sam, Natasha, and Clint a head start.”

“And you two can work out your many issues without the rest of us having to suffer through it,” Sam points out. Steve glares.

“Yeah, that, too.”

“I can’t _wait,”_ Tony adds, unable to control himself any longer. Steve doesn’t glare at him, though. Which might be good or bad—Tony can’t really tell at this point.

“Behave,” Bucky mumbles to him under his breath.

Right. _Don’t_ piss off the people currently protecting you, Stark.

“We’ll leave in an hour,” Natasha says, standing. “You three can wait until nightfall.” She glances at Bucky. “Yasha, a word?”

He rises and so do Clint and Sam, gathering up most of the knife arsenal as they go. And then, _fantastic,_ it’s just him and Steve. Sitting here like a pair of idiots.

“We need to talk,” Steve says, cutting into the uncomfortable silence. “But I vote we wait until we make it to Wakanda.”

Oh thank God.

“Yeah,” Tony says and, oh look, his voice sounds almost normal now. “Good with me.”

“But thank you,” Steve adds, finally looking at him. Tony has no idea what to do with the earnest expression on his face. “For what you did for Bucky. I … I owe you, Tony. A hell of a lot.”

Well. That’s …

“Save it for Wakanda, remember?” Because no one is better at running away from feelings than Tony Stark—he can admit that to himself.

“Right.” Steve actually _smiles—_ faint, hesitant, but _there_ and fuck, Tony will take it. “Wakanda.”

He gets up from the table, rubs the back of his neck in what actually seems to be a nervous gesture. “I’m going to go help the others get ready.”

And with that he’s gone.

Tony sits at the table and manfully resists the urge to bang his head against it repeatedly to the point of unconsciousness. Fuck, why isn’t there any alcohol? He could really use some alcohol right about now.

The floorboards creak again, but it’s just Bucky this time, leaning against the doorframe with arms folded across his chest.

“C’mon,” he says with a jerk of his head and Tony, desperate for any kind of distraction, follows blindly.

Bucky leads them out of the apartment, up another flight of stairs, and through a broken metal door onto the roof. Beyond them, Belgrade unfolds in a glimmering sprawl—buildings intercut with brilliant blue rivers. It’s beautiful from on high. Pristine.

Tony sucks in a lungful of city air and closes his eyes, feeling the restless rattle of his nerves ease a little.

“Figured you needed some fresh air,” Bucky says quietly.

“You figured right.”

He drifts to the edge of the roof. Leans on the wall for support he tells himself he doesn’t need. “You don’t happen to have any hard liquor on you, too?”

Bucky smirks. “Sorry, Natasha and I don’t have time for a vodka and knife sharpening session.”

“Pity.”

There’s a pregnant pause, but it’s comfortable, familiar. Tony again marvels at how relationships, _people_ , change. A bunker in Siberia and a rooftop in Belgrade—they might as well be two different worlds, two different sets of people.

Bucky leans on the wall next to him. “He doesn’t hate you.”

Tony sighs. “But he blames me.”

Bucky doesn’t bother lying to him. “Yes.”

He remembers the crunch of Bucky’s bones beneath his metal boot, a haunted “I remember all of them,” and the combination of fury and desperation on Steve’s face. “I can’t exactly blame him for that.”

“You didn’t know me,” Bucky points out.

Tony shakes his head. “That isn’t an excuse.”

Bucky shoots him a slightly surprised look and what? He’s mature enough (now) to acknowledge that. Or at least he’s trying to be.

“Give him time,” Bucky says. “He’ll listen.”

“He loves you,” Tony counters, because he’s seen how deep it runs—just in glimpses but more than enough to understand. “I mean, you two put Romeo and Juliet to shame.”

Bucky arches an eyebrow. “Romeo and Juliet? Those idiot kids who fell in love in six days and then died because they couldn’t put together a basic plan properly?”

Tony winces. “Yeah, bad example. But you get my point.”

Bucky sighs. “I do. But you also get mine. Don’t … try not to throw up too many walls and I’ll make sure he does the same, deal?”

Tony, once again unable to resist, sticks his hand out. Bucky shakes it with a roll of his eyes. “Deal.”

“With the risk of sounding too sentimental,” Tony continues, feeling like this probably needs to be said. “Thanks for getting me this far.”

Bucky squeezes his shoulder, metal fingers hard and comforting. “Thanks for breaking me out.”

“I guess we’re even, then?” And sure, he’s fishing, but with memories of Siberia so close to the surface he wouldn’t mind a little reassurance.

Bucky smiles at him. “We are. We have been.”

“Good. Now shut up and let me admire the view.” And he stubbornly turns to face the city again, shoving his hands in his pockets as he tries to school his sappy, pathetically grateful expression into something neutral again. He probably just looks constipated.  

Bucky laughs, loud and long.

It’s a good sound.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did so much research for this, you don't even. Hopefully everything is believable. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has commented, bookmarked, and left kudos so far. We're almost there, folks! 
> 
> \- C x

“At the end of the day, it isn’t where I came from. Maybe home is somewhere I’m going and never have been before.”

                                                                                                                                                                                ― **Warsan Shire**

________________

 

**TONY**

He still has the burner phone. Fully charged, thanks to Sam’s borrowed converter. He sits on the roof, watching the setting sun reflect off the skyscrapers, and turns it over and over in his hands. It’s a stupid idea. Monumentally stupid. Beyond reckless.

But he’s the king of those.

He takes a deep breath, fingers hovering over the ancient keypad. He stays there a moment, between one exhale and the next, selfishness and sacrifice, as the sun hits the surface of the river, turning the water gold. It’s beautiful. He’s getting better at recognizing beautiful things.

He dials, punching in the number he knows by heart.

It rings rings rings. Then, _click,_ and: “ _Hello, you have reached the voicemail of Pepper Potts…”_

He lets the message play, soaks up the sound of her voice—a balm even over the tinny phone speakers. “Hey,” he says into the silence after the beep. “It’s … it’s me. I promised myself I wasn’t going to contact you, but. Well. I’ve never been good at promises, have I?” He swallows around the tightness in his throat. His eyes are burning. “I’m sorry. I was never good enough for you. I always … I always knew that. But I’ve always been selfish, too. And I know you probably hate me. One stupid decision after the next, right? I’m sorry if you’ve gotten flack for my latest shitstorm. I never meant … I’ve never, ever wanted you to get hurt. But I can’t … I don’t regret this one, Pep.”

He sucks in a wet breath. “I love you. I know I was crap at showing it, but I do. And. I’m sorry again. I hope you … you have a great life. The best life possible. I won’t. You won’t hear from me again. I promise and I’ll keep that one. Thank you for everything. Good … good-bye, Pepper. Please—”

The phone beeps loudly, signalling he’s out of time. A robotic voice asks if he wants to save his message. He presses one and hangs up. That’s that, then. Terrible, pathetic good-bye said. One down …

… one to go.

He wipes at his traitorous, leaking eyes, and dials the second number. Four rings. _Click._ Voicemail.

“ _This is Colonel James Rhodes…”_

“It’s me,” he says again, clutching the phone tightly. “I’m sorry. I’ve probably landed you in a ton of hot water, I know. I haven’t … I haven’t really looked at the news. I’m safe. I’m … I’m not coming back. I can’t. But you know that already, don’t you?”

Fuck, he’s rambling. He needs to stop rambling. But Rhodey is harder because Rhodey has been there since the beginning. Since MIT. Through his party days and his parents’ deaths and his appointment to CEO of Stark Industries. Rhodey has seen him at his best, his worst, his everything in between, and a year ago Rhodey paid a steep, horrible price for his mistakes.

“I’m so sorry,” he repeats helplessly. “But I … I can’t regret this one. I can’t. They were … they were doing terrible things to him, Rhodey. I couldn’t just let it happen. Hopefully one day you’ll understand. I’m going to ground. Can’t say where but you won’t hear from me again. Maybe that’s a relief right now. You’re finally free of me. Only took two decades or so, right? Anyway, this is good-bye. I hope you’re okay. Don’t let them mess with you. You were always … you were the best of us, Rhodey. Don’t know why you stuck by me for so long, but thank you. For everything. And I’m—”

_Beep._

He blows out a frustrated punch of air and taps to save the message. There. Two for two. And the urge to curl up and cry is only _somewhat_ consuming. He settles for burying his face in his hands and taking slow, calming breaths. When he’s managed to compose himself enough to be presentable, he stands on shaky legs and throws the burner phone off the roof.

The metal access door creaks as he turns to face it. Bucky’s silhouette is nearly black in the fading light. “Ready?” He asks and Tony nods.

It’s not a total lie. Just _mostly_ one.

 

________________

 

Steve drives as they leave Belgrade behind. Tony has the entire backseat to himself, which is somewhat of an improvement, but spending more time trapped in a car definitely sucks. He stretches his legs out and watches the city lights vanish, swallowed by the encompassing black of the countryside.

They’re heading south, toward the Mediterranean where there will most likely be a boat followed by even more driving.

Joy.

The radio dissolves into static after about an hour and Steve flicks it off with a soft huff of annoyance. The silence settles, heavy, and Tony tries not to think of Pepper or Rhodey or Siberia or anything at all. It doesn’t work and he doesn’t really want to try to remember the breathing exercises from that YouTube video so he decides to hell with it.

“Where’s Wanda?” He asks, leaning forward in the seat.

“Nepal,” Steve replies after a tense moment. “She didn’t …”

“She didn’t want to keep fighting,” Bucky fills in. “Said she needed time.”

“She’s safer away from all of this, anyway,” Steve continues. “I sent her a message about Wakanda. I imagine she’ll come when she’s ready. Once we make sure it’s safe.”

Tony hums, wondering if she and Vision have managed to find each other. He can imagine her in all those mountains easily, rebuilding, communing with nature—all those things people do to find themselves that he’s never managed to understand. He hopes she’s safe. He hopes she’s at peace. And he’s not always good at weighing the cost—at seeing _people_ beyond what they’re capable of, like the machines he builds—but he knows he treated her like a weapon when he should have seen a kid and maybe someday he’ll get a chance to apologize for that.

He can add it to the fucking list.

“I never meant for her to get hurt,” he says for now and watches Steve’s fingers tighten on the steering wheel. “You have to know that.”

“You called her a weapon of mass destruction,” Steve says. “You locked her up.”

“It’s not that simple,” Tony argues. “You think everything is black and white and it’s not.”

“Sometimes it is. When it comes to people it _is._ You can’t … you don’t treat people like weapons, Tony.”

“You’re a weapon,” Tony blurts, unable to help himself. “Terminator over there is a weapon. Banner is a weapon. We’re _all_ weapons. That’s the _problem.”_

“God, haven’t you learned anything?” Steve snaps. “It all went to hell and you’re still calling the Accords a good idea?”

“In theory, yes!”

“Right, in theory. We’re weapons so we should be managed. Locked up. _Tortured…”_

Tony flinches, flashing back to Bucky screaming in that godawful chair, and lets out a shaky breath. “No, of course not.”

He sighs again, rubbing his face. He should have known this was a terrible idea. They’ve crossed too many lines, cut too many wounds into each other—there’s no coming back and they should have just stayed on separate fucking continents because—

“Stop it,” Bucky interjects suddenly, twisting away from the window to glare at them. “This isn’t helping.”

The wheel creaks in Steve’s grip and Tony shakes his head. “Told you,” he mutters.

Bucky shoots them both an exasperated look. “You think there’s no common ground between the two of you and that’s your problem. We are _all_ what war made us. Whether we like it or not. Start there.”

Tony takes a moment to once again marvel at Bucky’s ability to cut through all the bullshit and stab you straight in the fucking heart. In the front seat, Steve’s shoulders slump.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

“I shouldn’t have trusted Ross,” Tony offers, because that, at least, is true.

And he _does_ want to try, damnit. He wants to believe that they can be a united front in spite of all the damage, in spite of all those bloody wounds, in spite of the differing ideologies they’ve never managed to align. Captain America has been the standard his father held him to his whole life—the bar set so high he always managed to fall short—and maybe it’s time he laid that to rest.

“I was too wrapped up in fixing my own problems that I didn’t weigh the consequences,” he continues. A bitter laugh bubbles to his lips as he thinks about Ultron, Iraq, AIM, and Rhodey plummeting towards the ground. “I’ve never been very good at that.”

Steve sighs—a long, tired exhale. “And I know there are things … a lot of things that I should have told you. Trusted you with.”

“Yeah,” Tony murmurs. 

_(A car hits a tree on an abandoned road over and over and over and there is guilt but no surprise on Steve Roger’s face.)_

“We’re fucked up,” he concludes, sinking back into the seat. Outside, stars explode above the black silhouettes of the trees and he feels weary down to the marrow of his bones.

“Yeah,” Steve agrees with a jagged laugh. “That we are.”

“I thought that was a prerequisite for joining this club,” Bucky cuts in.

Tony laughs again—not sure what makes it funnier: how sad it is or how true.

 

________________

 

It’s raining over the Mediterranean and the constant rocking of the boat is making a dent in even his strong stomach.

“How come I can do all kinds of acrobatics in the suit and this is what does me in?” He asks, huddled on a bench in the small cabin.

Steve shrugs, looking faintly green himself. Bucky is up talking to their captain (if this rickety fishing boat can be called a _ship)_ and Tony has added Greek to the apparently endless list of languages he speaks.

“Boats are worse than cars,” he mutters, resting his head on the table. “So much worse.”

Steve nods in agreement and shudders as a crack of lightning illuminates the cabin in a blinding flash. The fisherman had assured them that navigating rocky seas is no problem, but Tony doesn’t trust this tin can—no matter how good of a condition it appears to be in.

The cabin door creaks and Bucky hurries down the stairs, pulling the door closed behind him against the wind and rainwater. He’s dressed in a baggy poncho, hood pulled up over his head, and Tony decides that _this_ is the most ridiculous look he’s seen so far.

“Well?” Steve asks, getting up to help Bucky peel the dripping thing off.

“We’re almost through the worst of it,” Bucky says, wiping water off his face. “Once this passes there should be calm seas for the rest of the trip.”

“And how long is that?” Tony asks, already dreading the answer.

“Another day,” Bucky says, squeezing in across from him. “He’s going to drop us a few miles off the coast, once it’s dark.”

Right. Tony forgot about that lovely part of the plan. “And clarify again for us non super powered people how many miles is ‘a few.’”

Bucky shrugs. “Four or five. We’re not gonna let you drown, Tony.”

Tony waves his bandaged hand. “Maybe now’s a good time to remind you of the broken wrist?”

“Not gonna let you drown.”

Somehow, Tony isn’t comforted, in spite of the certainty in Bucky’s voice.

 

________________

 

He doesn’t drown, but the swim to shore isn’t exactly a walk in the park, either. By the time they reach the beach, Tony’s legs feel like someone’s removed all the bones from them and his lungs are working overtime to draw even a modicum of oxygen into them. He collapses on the sand the second Bucky lets go of his arm and tries to stop the tremors wracking through him.

Neither Bucky nor Steve is even breathing hard. Fucking super soldiers.

“I hate … you both,” he rasps out.

Bucky smiles grimly at him. The full moon gives the beach a silver, ethereal gleam. They’re the only people in sight for miles and the ocean is a black expanse. It feels like another world.

Tony wonders, nonsensically, if somehow this has all been a dream and soon he’s going to wake up with a hangover on the floor of his lab.

“We should get moving,” Steve says, looking entirely unbothered by his soaked clothing and the sand that must now be getting into every possible orifice.

Ugh.

“You ready?” Bucky asks and he nods. He can do this.

He pushes himself to his feet slower than he would have liked, but his legs hold him now so that’s progress. “What’s step two? Or … four, I guess, if we’re being technical about this?”

“Clothes and a car,” Bucky says as they start trudging up the beach, leaving the shoreline behind. “Then we drive south about five thousand miles and we should reach the Wakandan border.”

“Oh five thousand miles, is that all?”

Bucky smiles again, just as humorless as before. “Yeah. Easy, right?”

Tony laughs—a sharp, almost hysterical sound. Five thousand miles of desert, jungle, and war-torn country to what is probably a trap—oh yeah, total piece of cake.

Not a problem at all.

 

________________

 

The sun is starting to rise when they finally reach the heart of Benghazi. The city is still tired and scarred by war and revolution—streets lined with pockmarked buildings and flyblown waste. With the sun comes the desert heat, drying their clothes and turning the sand hard and crusted. Bucky leads them down twisting, careworn thoroughfares with terrifying ease.

“You’ve been here before,” Steve concludes as they pick their way through a narrow alley full of cars and potholes.

Something complicated flickers over Bucky’s face. “Yes,” he says, voice even.

Steve doesn’t ask for an explanation, for the blood and death sown here, just reaches out and catches Bucky’s hand, lacing their fingers together. It’s a sweet, simple gesture and Tony glances away, absurdly feeling like he’s once again intruding.

They’re both back to business quickly and Bucky leads them on an unwavering path to Souq Al Jareed. The covered bazaar is already teeming with life—stalls overflowing with colorful clothing, ornate ceramics, and just about every cheap electronic device under the sun. Across the road, the open section of the Al Funduq market is nearly overrun with livestock and produce stands.

There’s a sharp, staccato burst of gunfire that makes him jump, reaching instinctively for a weapon that’s no longer there. Steve, he notices, grabs for the empty air at his back.

“It’s fine,” Bucky murmurs. “Just weapon traders.”

Tony forces himself to relax. Bucky glances at the bazaar and then says, firm, “Wait here.”

“Buck—” Steve instantly protests.

Bucky silences him with a sharp look. “Wait. Here.”

Steve blows out a frustrated breath, but backs down. Bucky turns away without another word, vanishing into the bazaar like a silent shadow.

“So he does that to you, too, does he?” Tony asks and gets an exasperated look in response. It’s comforting.

“C’mon,” Steve says, gesturing towards a quieter side street. “Probably should keep our heads down.”

Yeah. While there are a few brave tourists milling about here and there, they definitely stick out. The huddle against the cracking plaster and Tony tries not to think about the all the places the sand is starting to chafe. God he wants another shower, and alcohol, and for this whole fucking mess to be over and done with.

Except it never will be, will it? He’s not Tony Stark anymore. The money, the company, the suits, Pepper—it’s all gone. Forever. And he’s not sure when he’s going to learn to live with that—when the impact of it is going to hit him properly—but right now it feels far away, weightless. Perhaps that is one upside of being so consumed with survival: you’re too busy trying to keep yourself alive to worry about everything that you’ve lost.

And okay, he’s probably reaching here, but he’s in a fucking alley in Benghazi covered in sand in the company of two people he was trying to kill a year ago and he could use some positives.

He scratches at where a patch of sand has managed to stick to his cheek and jerks in surprise when Bucky suddenly materializes at the mouth of the street.

“Jesus. Have I mentioned you’re terrifying?”

Bucky shoves a bundle of clothes at him. “A few times.”

He deposits another bundle in Steve’s arms and it’s only then that Tony notices he’s wearing a new outfit. Jeans, a pale blue shirt with a long-sleeved over shirt to hide the arm, combat boots and, Jesus, even a pair of sunglasses perched on his face. He also has a gun strapped to his hip, what looks like a knife holstered to his other leg, and a _fucking rifle_ slung over his back.

“You got all this in twenty minutes?” Tony asks in disbelief, though really he should have stopped being shocked after Bucky found a meth lab in a rainstorm by smell alone.

Bucky shrugs. “I’m also efficient.” He waves at a somewhat sheltered doorway. “Go change.”

Steve shakes his head, a quiet laugh spilling out, and grins at Bucky with what looks like open delight. “I’m very attracted to you right now.”

Tony rolls his eyes. From behind the sunglasses, he suspects Bucky does the same, though he’s smiling. “Go change, loser.”

It’s awkward, pretty much stripping down in broad daylight, and Tony changes as fast as possible, even though the street is empty. The new clothes are lightweight, breathable cotton and he sighs in undisclosed relief. Bucky even included sunglasses and a gun.

Tony seriously might be in love. Just a little.

Steve is already finished when he regroups with them—dressed in similar clothes and now sporting a sidearm of his own. He’s leaning against Bucky’s side, a thumb hooked on the waistband of his jeans, and it’s the casual kind of intimacy that only comes from years spent in another person’s space.

There’s a quiet quality to their closeness, too, that Tony can’t really explain. They’re not blatant about their love for each other and yet it bleeds from every pore.

“So,” he says a little too loudly as he approaches. Steve doesn’t pull away from Bucky and Tony realizes with an internal jolt that this is a display of trust—Steve Rogers taking a few bricks out of his towering walls. Tony files it away, touched, in spite of his best efforts to the contrary. “What’s step five, gentlemen? I’m assuming transport of some kind.”

“A jeep, preferably,” Steve says. “Would be best for the terrain.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard to steal one,” Bucky adds with matter-of-fact confidence.

Tony doesn’t doubt him for a second.

 

________________

 

It isn’t hard. In fact, it takes ten minutes. Bucky leaves him and Steve on another side street in a substantially shadier part of the city and returns with a jeep—as calm as if he’s just been out shopping.

“You know,” Steve says as they scramble inside. Tony pauses to examine several bullet holes dotting the side and tells himself not to think about it, “you could let me help once and while. I’m not exactly new to the whole espionage thing.”

“You stand out too much,” Bucky replies, pulling out onto the main road. “And you don’t speak Arabic.”

“He means you’re not scary enough,” Tony quips because fuck it—he’s tired and he’s hot and he’s done being somewhat polite.

“That too.”

Steve rolls his eyes and unfolds an honest-to-God _map_ from his pocket.

“Where on earth did you get _that?”_

He gets a blank look. “Not new to the whole espionage thing, remember?” Steve's expression turns slightly sheepish. “Or, um, pickpocketing. Got us a phone, too. Nat left us a number to contact them on when we get closer to Wakanda.”

God, super soldiers.

“Captain America knows how to pickpocket? You’re ruining my childhood.”

“Shut up,” Steve huffs.

Bucky laughs.

________________

 

**BUCKY**

They stop about thirty miles out of the city—the desert consuming every horizon—and Steve spreads the map across the hood of the jeep. For a moment, Bucky is back in Europe in the winter of ’44, surrounded by the commandos and watching Steve trace tactical lines across the parchment, his rifle a heavy weight against his back.

Something must show on his face, because Steve arches a questioning eyebrow at him. He shakes the moment off and smiles. “Déjà vu.”

Steve glances down at the map and quirks his mouth in a wry smile of understanding. Tony rolls his eyes at them. “God, you two are so weird.”

Bucky shrugs, not feeling like offering an explanation. It’s probably true, anyway.

“Okay,” Steve says, also ignoring Tony’s comment. “Nat mentioned rendezvousing here,” he taps a spot on the map in South Sudan, “unless we hear otherwise. Narus. It’s right near the border of Wakanda.”

Bucky runs some quick calculations in his head. “What route are we taking?”

“We have two options.” Steve pulls out a pen that he probably lifted along with the map and traces a black, winding line from Libya west into Algeria. “We can go this way. Into Algeria and then south through Niger, Chad, and the Central African Republic. That’s about eight thousand kilometers.”

Tony whistles.

“So six or seven days,” Bucky says. “What’s option two?”

“East,” Steve replies, drawing another line. “We stick to the coast and cross the border into Egypt. Head south past Cairo and down into Sudan. That’s about fifty-six hundred kilometers, but the borders are stricter and there’s still a lot of fighting near the border with South Sudan.”

“I remember,” Bucky mutters, dialing back six months to a village on fire—Clint on a rooftop shooting arrows as fast as possible and Steve pinned under a truck by grenades.

That hadn’t been a fun weekend.

“Egypt also signed the Accords,” Tony adds, “While I’m pretty sure that at least Niger, Chad, and the Central African Republic haven’t. If that helps.”

“But we’re dealing with a lot more desert if we go for the first route,” Bucky counters, eyeing the map. They’re not too far from the much smaller town of Suduq, where they can pick up supplies. He managed to lift a good chunk of money at the bazaar, just by targeting rich looking tourists and shoppers, and figures he can haggle enough food, clothing, and other basics to get them through a week on the road.

“True,” Steve concedes, “but the Trans-Sahara Highway might actually make the first route faster, even if we’re covering more distance.”

“Well I vote for route one, then,” Tony says, adjusting his sunglasses.

Steve looks to him, questioning, and with a final glance of the map, he nods. Steve’s right. The Trans-Sahara Highway can take them all the way down through Niger and into the Central African Republic in much less time than travelling through Egypt and war-torn Sudan.

“Okay,” Steve says, folding up the map. “Route one, it is.”

“Yipee,” Tony says with an impressive amount of sarcasm.

Bucky climbs back behind the wheel. The desert ripples—heat radiating in waves from the scorched earth.

Six days, almost five thousand miles—the Winter Soldier has dealt with much worse, but Bucky Barnes is already exhausted.

He throws the jeep into drive. Steve’s hand covers his own on the gearshift, a comforting, welcome weight. 

 

________________

 

He spends two precious hours haggling in Arabic with several different merchants in Suduq while Steve and Tony look on in amusement, but he manages to secure some survival gear, clothes, food and water—all for a bargain. He thinks that in this rare instance, the intimidation factor is working in his favour.

And if he plays it up a bit … well he can’t bring himself to feel too guilty.

 

________________

 

They drive for miles along the Mediterranean coast. The sea is silver on his right and the desert glows almost white on his left. Steve sleeps with his face pressed against the window and his jacket pulled up over him, and Tony is curled up in the back seat with a hat over his eyes.

Bucky settles into the peaceful stillness, humming songs under his breath from long ago.

 

________________

 

“Well this is a problem,” Tony mutters on day two, ten miles across the Algerian border. There’s two military trucks on the highway behind them, waving at them to pull over.

Bucky covers his nose and mouth with a scarf and checks his handgun. Steve shoots him a concerned look, but his nerves are calm and his hands are steady.

“Speed up,” he says.

“Bucky—”

“What the hell are you planning, Terminator?”

“Speed up,” he repeats. “Force them to chase us. The jeep is reinforced. We’ll be fine.”

Steve shakes his head, but obeys, trusting as always. Bucky takes a deep breath and opens the passenger door. As predicated, the truck is speeding up. It’s a small patrol—only six or seven men—and they’re already drawing rifles. With the terrorist activity along the Tunisian and Libyan borders, Bucky imagines they’re ready to shoot unknown vehicles first and ask questions never.

And that isn’t taking into account the kill order on the Winter Soldier in just about every damn nation on the planet.

He braces one foot on the open door and swings himself up onto the roof.

“Fuck!” Tony shouts from inside.

The passenger of the first truck is leaning out the window, weapon drawn. He’s going to have to make this fast.

He jumps in one smooth motion onto the hood of the truck. Terror flickers across the soldiers’ faces as he draws his metal fist back and punches a hole in their windshield—reinforced glass giving easily from the force of the blow. The driver shouts in panic and the passengers scramble to bring their weapons around, but it’s not nearly fast enough.

He knocks the driver unconscious with a second strike and shoots the passenger twice in the shoulder, rendering his weapon arm useless. The truck begins to careen out of control, but he’s already moving, sprinting along the top of the carriage to the second car.

He lands with enough force to dent the hood as the first truck spins off the road and crashes into a nearby sand dune.

The passenger of the second truck is already shooting, leaning as far out of the window as possible. A bullet grazes his arm, cutting in deep, but the pain doesn’t register—is to be dealt with later. He grabs the soldier by the front of his vest and hauls him out the window, tossing him from the car into the sand at the roadside. He lands in a tumbling cloud of dust and Bucky shifts to bash in the front windshield again.

The driver is struggling to pull a gun from his holster, but Bucky reaches in through the hole in the glass and wrenches the steering wheel to the side, swerving them off the road, then yanks it free completely. The driver curses loudly in Arabic and Bucky leaps from the truck just as it smashes into another dune, sand breaking over it like a crashing wave.

He lands in a crouch, bracing himself with his metal hand. Blood drips from his arm onto the tarmac and in his chest his heart beats out of control. Steve pulls up in the jeep a moment later, throwing open the passenger door.

“Get in!”

Bucky clambers back inside as Steve floors it, leaving the wrecked trucks behind.

“Holy shit,” Tony is saying, sounding slightly hysterical. “I mean I was already well aware of your petrifying assassin skills but _holy shit._ Those were NIMR armored models and you took two out in less than five minutes. Holy _fucking_ shit…”

“You’re bleeding,” Steve says with a worried glance at his red-soaked sleeve. “Tony, toss me up the first aid kit.”

“…seriously I’m revising the whole “not really a killer robot” theory. Are you sure you’re human? Because _that_ was pretty much physically impossible to pull off with just a metal arm and a fucking _handgun,_ my God what—”

“Tony!”

“Right, sorry. Get back here, Robocop. Let me have a look at that arm.”

The pain is flooding in as adrenaline settles and Bucky gasps as he maneuvers his way into the backset, collapsing next to Tony. He pulls the scarf from his face in an afterthought. The whir of the metal arm is loud in the cabin as it works overtime to combat the desert heat while simultaneously responding to tangle of emotions raging through Bucky’s nervous system. Tony has the first aid kit open in his lap and he helps Bucky peel off the ruined over shirt.

“Doesn’t look too bad,” he says, assessing. “But it’s gonna need stiches.”

Bucky shakes his head. “Just bandage it. It’ll start closing up within the hour.”

Tony frowns at him, but reaches for the antiseptic and the gauze instead of the needle and thread. “Goddamn super soldier.”

Bucky manages a weak smile. The pain is a pulsing fire now, licking down his arm, but he’s had worse. He shoves it down, locks it away, and keeps still while Tony cleans and bandages the wound.

“Well that was fun,” Steve says dryly and Bucky can’t help the desperate, broken laughter that breaks free.

 

________________

 

A sandstorm hits on day three, making it impossible to drive. They hunker together in the jeep and watch the dust swirl mad and wild on all sides. It’s over in less than half an hour, but the highway is left coated with sand several feet deep, requiring Steve to get out and push while Bucky carefully steers them through the blocked section.

“Thank God he’s Captain America, right?” Tony comments, watching Steve easily push the heavy jeep through the shifting, knee-deep sand.

“Damn right,” Bucky says.

When they finally reach clear, paved road again, Steve climbs back inside, drenched with sweat. Bucky wordlessly hands him a water bottle, waits for him to take a few big gulps, and then pulls him in for a kiss.

“You’re hot when you do insane feats of strength,” he says in response to Steve’s questioning look.

Tony makes exaggerated gagging noises in the back seat.

 

________________

 

They cross the border into Niger with no problems, following the Trans-Sahara Highway as it winds south through the seemingly endless desert. Tony’s fingers tap a quick, complicated rhythm against the steering wheel and on the horizon, dark mountains brush up against the star-spattered sky.

Steve is curled up in the back, dead to the world, but Bucky gave up on sleep over an hour ago in favour of staring blankly out at the unchanging landscape. He’s debating attempting to meditate instead when Tony looks over at him and says, “You know, I think this has been the most adventurous two weeks of my life and I was once captured by terrorists.”

“And fought aliens,” Bucky fires back because Steve has told him, at length, about the battle for New York five years ago.

“Right, can’t forget about the aliens.”

Bucky hesitates, but the question has been weighing on his mind since the beginning of this mess, from the moment Tony keyed open the door to his cell instead of killing him. And no time like the present, he thinks the saying goes.

“Do you regret it?”

Tony glances over at him with a frown. “Saving you? No.”

“Honestly?”

“Cross my heart,” Tony replies, drawing an x on his chest for emphasis. “Truth be told I knew I’d fucked up. I knew it after Siberia. I just didn’t want to face it. So I drank my way through the next year and lied to myself that things had worked out the only way they could have. No other possible outcomes. But I already knew Ross was a dick who couldn’t be trusted. I just needed a push to get me to actually do something about it.”

He winces. “Not that, uh, you getting horrifically tortured was okay or anything.”

Bucky shakes his head. “No I get it.”

“It sucks,” Tony says after a moment. “Losing Pepper and Rhodey and Iron Man. I’ll miss my billionaire status and my suits and my fucking mansion. But I don’t regret it, Terminator. This feels … right.” He shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t do all this emotional crap. I’m where I need to be. Take that for the trite, honest statement it is.”

“Okay,” Bucky says, kicking his feet up on the dash.

“I’m really fucking sick of the desert, though,” Tony adds and Bucky laughs under his breath.

“You and me both. At least the stars are nice.”

Tony leans forward to peer up at the night sky above them and makes a contemplative sound. “Yeah. Guess they are. This is also the longest I’ve ever spent away from civilization of my own free will. Three months in a cave doesn’t count.”

“I prefer it out here,” Bucky says. “Cities are good to hide in, but out here … I can breathe.”

No one to recognize him, air untainted by pollution—just him and the endless earth and sky. He’s Brooklyn born and bred, still likes the pulse of life a city offers, but out here in the stillness he feels truly free.

 

“Yeah,” Tony says—quiet, almost reverent. “I get that.”

They drive, the mountains looming closer and closer. Tony’s fingers tap again—a restless, kinetic beat—and Bucky closes his eyes, letting the quiet wash over him, soothing in its absoluteness.

 

________________

 

He calls Natasha after they’ve crossed the border into Chad—desert finally giving way to vibrant, virulent green. They're parked on the side of the pockmarked road and Tony has his upper half submerged beneath the hood of the jeep, making adjustments while Steve pretends not to hover.

Bucky takes the burner phone a few feet away, watchful eyes on the dense jungle around them, and dials the number Natasha scribbled down for Steve.

She answers on the second ring, but waits for him to identify himself first. “Natalia.”

“ _Yasha. Where are you?”_

He switches to Russian easily. “Chad. About three days away. You?”

“ _South Sudan. When you get closer I’ll give you exact coordinates.”_

“Any news?”

_“When we reached the border a few members of the king’s personal guard were waiting for us. They said the invitation for asylum comes personally from T’Challa.”_

There’s still doubt in her voice—old, learned paranoia.

“So not a trap?” Bucky prods, wondering if he can actually allow himself to hope.

Natasha sighs, sharp. “ _Probably not. But we’re taking precautions anyway. We told them that we would wait for you before entering the country. Better safe than sorry, right?”_

“Right. Nothing wrong with a little paranoia.”

 _“It’s a requirement in our business,”_ Natasha says and then, softer, “ _Be safe. Call us when you’re closer and I’ll give you coordinates for a rendezvous.”_

“Copy that. Be safe, too, Natalia.”

She hangs up without saying good-bye. Down the road, Tony shuts the front of the jeep and wipes at the grease smeared across his face. “We’re good to go! And Jesus, Rogers, give me some space, will you? You are literally the worst mother hen I’ve ever met and I had Happy as my security for over a decade.”

Bucky pockets the phone and climbs in the back, stretching out as much as possible. His bones ache from nearly three weeks in transit and he can’t help the dread that’s coiling at the base of his spine, sinking into the edges of his thoughts—that insidious, persistent whisper of terrors to come.

He reaches out, brushing his fingers across the back of Steve’s shoulder. Steve glances at him with a tired, affectionate smile, and he forces himself to relax.

Whatever is waiting, they’ll fight it just like they always do.

 

________________

 

It rains constantly after they cross into the Central African Republic, turning the roads into a messy deluge.

“’Tis the season,” Tony mutters grumpily as Steve slowly navigates them through another washed out portion of the highway.

“At least it’s cooled off,” Bucky says, watching the jungle leaves tremble from the impact of the water.

“As long as this mud doesn’t trap us,” Steve adds, nerves creeping into his voice.

“I have the utmost faith in you, darling,” Bucky drawls.

“I don’t,” Tony says. “Don’t you dare get us stuck, Steve.”

“Shut the hell up, Tony,” Steve grumbles, flicking the windshield wipers up another notch.

 

________________

 

They cross the South Sudanese border by the cover of nightfall, relieved to be out of the rain. The jungle roads are hard on the jeep and they’re running low on gas, but according to Steve’s map they should make it to Narus before they hit empty.

“Ow,” Tony huffs as the jeep lurches through another pothole and he smacks against the back window. “I think this is almost worse than the suit and that's already required me to visit a chiropractor every day for the rest of my life.”

“We’re almost there,” Steve says through gritted teeth, rubbing his head where it connected with the window as well.

“Ten hours is not _almost there._ Especially when moving at a speed of less than five miles an hour.”

“You know what, Tony, why don’t you just—”

The jeep lurches again, silencing Steve and forcing Bucky to fight for control. He glares at them once he’s managed to even out. “And you two fighting like five-year-olds isn’t helping anything, either.”

They both look contrite, at least, but Bucky still wants to bash their heads together. He’s never seen Steve bicker this much with someone who isn’t him. It’s hilarious, disconcerting, and frustrating all at once.

“Steve, make yourself useful. Call Nat.”

Steve dutifully pulls out the phone and dials, putting it on speaker. It rings and rings and rings with no answer before the call ends with a loud _click._ A surge of panic hits him like a fucking train and he tries not to drown in it.

It’s fine. Don’t jump to conclusions, Barnes. Of course, that isn’t easy when the same fear is reflected all over Steve and Tony’s faces.

“Maybe she’s just out of range,” Steve says, aiming for and falling short of calm. “I’ll try again soon.”

Bucky clenches his jaw and goes back to battling the road for control of the jeep.

 

________________

 

“Anything?” Steve asks, eight hours later. The sun has set, leaving them in deep, starless darkness, but fortunately the trees are starting to thin.

Bucky shakes his head, listening to Natasha’s phone ring out for the fifteenth time since their first call. The panic has coalesced into icy fear and settled deep into his bones.

“We don’t know anything’s wrong,” Tony points out—elbows resting on the curve of their seats as he leans far enough forward to see their faces in the dim interior light.

“You really believe that?” Bucky asks and the dark twist of Tony’s mouth is answer enough.

“We’re only two hours from Narus,” Steve says in his Captain’s voice. “We’ll just need to be prepared for anything.”

Bucky sets the phone on the dash and starts counting bullets with unsteady hands.

 

________________

 

Natasha’s phone rings out for the twentieth time. The trees continue to thin, gradually giving way to open fields, but two miles away from Narus the air is thick with …

“Is this _smoke?”_ Tony asks, peering out the window. Their visibility is down to almost zero and in the back of Bucky’s mind, warning sirens blare fierce and insistent.

“Yes,” Steve murmurs, tightening his grip on the wheel.

Tony picks up his sidearm and in the back seat, Bucky checks over the rifle.

Narus sits on a green plain, surrounded on all sides by dense, hilly jungle. As Steve crests the ridge, turning on to the dirt path that winds down to the village, Bucky’s breath catches in his throat.

Brilliant orange flames glow bright against the jungle dark, stretching long tendrils to the sky.

The entire village is on fire.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good lord this is intense. Warning for fairly graphic depictions of violence and injury in this, so please proceed with caution if that isn't your thing. 
> 
> There might actually be two more chapters to go after this, but we'll see. Either way, we're close! Thank you to everyone who's stuck with me thus far. :)

We’ll justify

anything—and by we, I mean I, and by

I, I mean we, with our man-is-the-only-

animal-who and our manifest destiny, killers

each of us by greater or lesser degrees.

―  **Kathy Fagan**

 

________________

 

**BUCKY**

Steve parks the jeep on the edge of the burning village and they all scramble out onto the muddy ground. Thunder rumbles overhead, signaling a coming storm, and Bucky checks the rifle, battling the roar of panic in his chest.

He knows what this is. They all do.

“Ross,” Steve mutters, surveying the blazing inferno before them. When he turns back, his eyes are determined and fear claws down Bucky’s spine.

“No—” He starts to protest.

“Wait here,” Steve cuts him off. “Guard the jeep. I’ll go look for them.”

“Like _hell,”_ Bucky snarls. Steve steps forward and cups his cheek, gaze pleading now.

“Trust me. I’ll be right back.”

Bucky shakes his head, but he’s backing down—years of watching Steve throw himself into danger, of holding the line while he played the hero, has ingrained the response into him. He’ll never stop worrying, but Steve has always come back—hell or high water or everything in between. “If you get yourself killed I’ll fucking murder you.”

Steve smiles, kisses him quick and chaste, and heads into the village at a run.

“He’s an idiot,” Tony says, sounding exasperated and awed all at once.

“Always has been,” Bucky replies, lifting the rifle.

He can’t see anything but shadows through the thick smoke permeating the air. Ross’s team have been thorough.

“This is our fault,” Tony says suddenly, eyes on the village. “These people are dead because of us.”

“These people are dead because Ross decided to bomb the hell out of them,” Bucky fires back. “That isn’t on us.”

Tony glances at him. His eyes are haunted above the bitter smile twisting his mouth. “We put them in the line of fire. We seem to be good at that.”

“They still brought the bombs.” Bucky looks back at the burning village and feels a rare anger twist in his stomach.

It will never get easier—from the empty villages and mass graves of eastern Europe to Narus crumbling before them—watching innocent people die. This wasn’t supposed to be a war, yet here they are. Fire and blood and death and Steve charging into the fray while he holds the line. Seventy years and nothing changes.

Speaking of Steve, he's has already been gone too long. Bucky is debating going in after him—Tony can hold the jeep just fine—when he hears it: the roar of an engine followed by a distinct, familiar whine.

_Fuck._

He spins, dropping the rifle, and grabs ahold of Tony with his metal hand. “ _Move!”_  

Tony turns wide eyes to him and he shoves with all his strength, lifting Tony off the ground to throw him. Please let it be enough to get him clear please—

The bomb impacts with an earth-shaking _BOOM._

The ground disappears beneath his feet and his vision goes white hot—fire and agony sparking along his nerves. He hangs there, suspended, for what feels like hours, weeks, _years_ before he slams back into the earth and everything goes black.

 

________________

 

**TONY**

Tony hits the ground and rolls for several feet from the force of Bucky’s throw, stopping only when he crashes into a tree. The earth rattles and heaves beneath him and the deafening roar of the explosion nearly bursts his ear drums. He curls up in the shadow of the tree on instinct, covering his ears and head with his arms.

When the dust settles and the ground stops rumbling, he cautiously sits up. The jeep is gone – flaming wreckage and a small crater in its place.

Shit. These fuckers are really going overboard.

Tony pushes himself to his feet, coughing as smoke prickles the back of his neck and stings at his eyes. God, he misses his suit. Why didn’t he think to bring a suit with him? He definitely should have gone back to being more paranoid and carrying one around in a suitcase everywhere.

He staggers toward the blast site, looking for Bucky. That stupid idiot better have gotten clear. Tony doesn’t do this whole self-sacrifice thing and he’s never going to forgive Bucky if the man went and died for him. He can’t live with that kind of responsibility.

There’s no sign of Bucky at the crater and Tony breathes a small sigh of relief. That promptly catches in his throat when he spots a shadow slumped against another tree a few feet away.

Oh shit.

He half stumbles, half runs, dodging debris from the exploded jeep as he goes, and drops to his knees in front of Bucky.

Shit. _Shit._

Bucky is pinned to the tree by a large piece of metal that has punched a gaping hole in his stomach. He can’t see much in the jungle dark, but when he touches his fingers to Bucky’s shirt he can feel wet blood coat his skin.

_Fuck._

“Bucky,” he says, trying to force down his panic. Keep your head, Stark. Surely you’ve been in worse scraps than this. Somewhere. “Bucky, wake up. C’mon, buddy. Need you to focus.”

Bucky groans, which dissolves into a rasping cough that brings blood bubbling to his lips, but his eyes blink open—hazed with pain. “Tony…”

“That’s it,” Tony says, forcing his voice to stay level. “No napping, okay? We need to get the hell out of here.”

Another hacking cough. “I think … that’s easier … said than done…”

Tony laughs, hysterical. God, this is so far beyond him. “Well I like a challenge.”

They need to cauterize the wound or Bucky will bleed out in seconds once he manages to pry the metal free. Tony can feel some of his panic receding as laser sharp focus moves to the forefront. He can do this. He built a suit out of scrap metal in a cave with a car battery attached to his chest—this should be a fucking walk in the park.

He shrugs out of his filthy over shirt, wrapping it around his hand like a bandage, and gets up. “Sit tight, okay?”

Bucky wheezes out the ghost of a laugh and nods, blood dripping down his chin. Tony moves as quickly as possible, scanning the wreckage-strewn ground for a suitable piece of metal. C’mon, c’mon … this whole place is fucking _littered_ with scrap, why can’t he…

_There._

He scoops it up and holds it over the fire still burning near the centre of the crater, watching it turn red with the heat. Once he can feel the burn of it through the thin protective layer of the shirt, he runs back to Bucky.

“Okay, we have to do this fast.”

Bucky nods, eyes closed. Tony takes a deep breath, sends a prayer to whoever might be listening that this doesn’t kill Bucky instantly, and yanks on the metal with all his might. Bucky _screams,_ loud and agonized, but the metal comes free, sliding through torn flesh with a sickening _squelch._ As soon as the debris is clear, Tony grabs his makeshift brand and presses it to jagged wound.

Bucky screams again, shaking, and Tony fights down the urge to gag at the smell of burning flesh. The wound is too big to fully close, but this should slow the bleeding down enough to keep Bucky alive for the time being.

Well. He hopes, anyway.

“There,” he says, dropping the metal. “That … that wasn’t so bad, right?”

Bucky gasps for air, flesh hand moving to cover the wound, and Tony can see the glisten of tears on his cheeks in the firelight. “Fuck … off, Stark.”

Tony laughs again, wiping sweat and dirt from his face with a trembling hand. “Yeah. You’re fine.”

Except he totally isn’t. He probably can’t even stand and the village is on fire, Ross’s men are still around somewhere, looking for them, and there’s no sign of Steve or the others. This has all gone to hell in a fucking handbasket real quick. Tony’s almost impressed.

They have to move. Their only chance now is to make it across the border. Which is five fucking miles away, but details.

“Okay,” Tony says, more to himself, and unwraps the shirt from his hand. “Sit up a little?”

Bucky obeys with a low groan and Tony quickly winds the shirt around his waist, tying it as tightly as he can. The wound is still bleeding, sluggish and black in the dim light. Fuck, where the hell is Steve? And more importantly, his gun?

“Wait here.” He squeezes Bucky’s shoulder and adds, a little more desperate than he means to be, “Don’t die.”

Bucky just closes his eyes. There’s another wound on his temple that’s dripping blood down the side of his face and God, Tony can’t lose him. Please, he doesn’t want to lose anyone else—even Rogers. He swallows the lump in his throat, sternly tells himself to _focus,_ goddamnit, and goes in search of his wayward gun.

He finds it a few from the tree, intact, and feels about ten times more relieved when he has it back in his hand. Not that this means they stand a chance, but still. It’s the small comforts.

He’s almost back to Bucky when he sees the soldier moving through the smoke, heading toward the wreckage of the jeep. He’s heavily armed, black ops, American—Tony shoots him in the knee without a second thought, feeling only grim satisfaction when he drops with a scream. He lets the fury boiling in his blood guide him as he stalks over to crumpled man, kicking him onto his back.

“Where are they?” He demands, pointing the gun at the soldier’s terrified face. “What have you done with them?”

The solider shakes his head and Tony wants to _scream._ The village is burning around them, a justified loss to these men—who will murder civilians at an _order,_ who will torture prisoners of war, who will lock a _kid_ up in a prison with drugs and a straight jacket just because they’re afraid of what she can do. Tony wants to kill them all, wants to put on the suit and crush their windpipes with his metal fingers and tell them, as the life leaves their eyes, “ _you wanted monsters.”_

“Where are they?” He yells and kicks the soldier’s wounded leg. The man screams again. “Where _the fuck are they?”_

“I … I don’t know…” the soldier gasps. “The village was harboring them … so we…” He trails off with a groan.

“So you burnt them alive?” Tony spits, practically shaking with the force of his rage.

He’s never felt anger, _helplessness,_ like this. Not even watching Yinsen bleed out in a cave in Afghanistan, or Obadiah walk away with his heart in hand in Malibu, or his parents die on a screen in Siberia. He raises the gun an inch higher, right at the soldier’s forehead—finger poised over the trigger. It’s not enough, but at least one life in repayment for all those lost is a start and—

“Tony.” A metal hand comes down on his arm and he turns to see Bucky, arm wrapped around his stomach and desperation in his eyes. “Stop.”

“He deserves to die,” Tony says without lowering the gun.

“I know,” Bucky replies, quiet. “Stop.”

Tony shakes his head—the furnace burning in his ribs where his heart should be demanding blood. “You said it yourself. This is war. Those were innocent people.” He gestures with his free hand to the ruined village. “He helped kill them.”

Bucky’s grip on his arm tightens. “Yes,” he says. “But this isn’t the kind of blood you want on your hands, Tony. Let him go.”

“ _I don’t care,”_ Tony snarls. There’s already too much blood—Afghanistan, Sokovia, New York, his father’s sins before him, nothing will be enough to wash it all away. He should just stop trying.

“You _have_ to,” Bucky argues. “You have to care. The minute you stop is the minute you become them. Please, Tony. Let him go.”

Tony takes a deep, hiccupping breath and lets the gun fall from his fingers. Shit. _Shit …_ he almost…

Bucky cuts off his internal panic attack by collapsing into the dirt with a moan. Tony’s at his side in an instant, uncaring of the wounded soldier now limping away. “Hey, hey, take it easy, Terminator. You’re not allowed to die on me, remember?”

“We have to find Steve,” Bucky rasps, leaning against Tony for support.

As if to punctuate his point, there’s a spatter of gunfire and another explosion from the jungle on the other side of the village. Tony shakes his head. “No. Steve is Captain America. He can take care of himself. You’re _dying._ I’m getting you out of here.”

Bucky glares at him, jaw clenched in stubborn determination. “I’m not leaving him.”

“Jesus, you two are made for each other,” Tony mutters in frustration.

Bucky starts to push himself up and Tony grasps him, steadying him with an arm around his waist. “Whoa, take it easy.”

“You should get out of here,” Bucky says. “I’ll … I’ll find Steve.”

“That was a joke, right?” He replies, tightening his grip.

“I can’t leave him.”

Tony sighs, sharp. “Look, you can barely walk. You have a hole in your stomach I could put my _fist_ through. Steve will literally kill me if he finds out I let you die. He can take care of himself. Just come with me and—”

“I’ve … had worse. I’m not leaving him, Tony.” Bucky starts to pull away, swaying on his feet, and Tony debates knocking him unconscious and dragging him away.

Except he’s fucking _heavy_ and Tony still has a broken wrist so that will probably result with them both dead in five minutes.

“Barnes, so help me God…”

There’s a shuffle of dirt and another figure materializes through the haze of smoke. Tony has his gun raised in an instant, ready to fire.

“Whoa,” Sam says, putting a hand up, and Tony lets out a rattling sigh of relief.

Sam is filthy and bloodstained, clutching what Tony suspects is a stolen rifle, but he’s moving of his own power and Tony has never been more thankful to see anyone in his life.

“Thank God,” he mumbles, dropping his arm back to his side. “Where are the others?”

Sam gestures to the jungle around them. “Heading for the border. Nat’s hurt bad and Clint’s with her. We saw your jeep come in. Lost the damn phone in the initial ambush so we didn’t want to leave in case you showed up and walked right into the trap.” He glances at the wreckage of the jeep. “Which you still did, sorry. You guys okay? Where’s Steve.”

“I am,” Tony says. “He isn’t. And don’t know.”

Sam’s gaze narrows in on the bloody bandage wrapped around Bucky’s torso. Another burst of gunfire echoes, making them all flinch. “You need to get out of here,” Sam says. “There’s several teams patrolling the jungle, looking for survivors.”

“Steve…” Bucky starts to protest.

“I’ll find him,” Sam interjects. “Tony, take him.”

“No, I can’t…”

“Barnes,” Sam steps forward, eyes grim and dark. “I’ll find him. I promise.”

Bucky stops, searching Sam’s face—for what, Tony doesn’t know, but he seems to find it, because he nods and finally backs down. “Okay. Keep him safe.”

“I will. You worry about yourself. He’ll go apeshit if you die on us. Be safe, Stark. Keep your head down. These guys are heavily armed. In case you couldn’t tell.”

“Yeah, that’s already noted,” Tony mumbles, wrapping Bucky’s arm around his shoulders again. “Be safe.”

Sam nods to them and runs in the direction of the burning village, vanishing once again into the smoke. Tony takes a deep breath and starts walking, one step at a time. Bucky leans heavily against his side, breath rattling and labored, but he stays upright. They can do this. They have to do this.

Five miles. He isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.

They make it to the trees and darkness—complete, absolute—engulfs them. Tony can’t stop the hitch of panic. Fuck, how are they supposed to navigate when he can barely even see his hand in front of his face?

“Keep going,” Barnes murmurs in his ear, and of course. “Path is clear. Just watch … watch for the roots.”

“How well can you see?” Tony whispers back.

“Well enough.”

He’ll take that.

 

________________

 

It’s slow, agonizing going and he’s not sure how far they’ve walked when they hear rustling in the trees, human voices echoing, a crackle of radios. Tony lowers Bucky to the ground, crouching next to him in the dense undergrowth, and pulls the gun from his waistband.

There’s five of them, armed to the fucking teeth, scanning the forest with night vision goggles. Tony holds his breath. Holds himself as still as possible.

Please. God, anyone who’s fucking listening, please just let them…

They move on, deeper into the jungle, fanning out as they go. Tony sags against Bucky, who just murmurs, “Wait…”

They stay there, shivering, for another fifteen minutes until the search party moves out of range. Tony is pulling Bucky to his feet again when the sky opens up above them—jungle rain, thick and heavy, coming in like a flood.

“Perfect,” Tony mutters as they’re soaked to the bone almost instantaneously.

“It’s a good thing,” Bucky says. “Makes it harder for them to track us.”

“Yeah, well, it also makes it harder to walk.”

And his point is proven when he slips a few minutes later, nearly dropping Bucky as they both fight for purchase in the slick mud. They win the battle by a margin and catch their breath against a nearby tree.

Bucky wheezes, eyes squeezed shut tight, and when Tony touches his fingers to the bandage, they come away brilliant red.  He tries not to despair.

 

________________

 

The rain beats like drums against the leaves overhead. Bucky is fading with every step and Tony thinks it’s time he started facing reality: they’re not going to make it.

Bucky, the fucking martyr, is clearly thinking along the same lines because after Tony’s slips for the millionth time, he says, pained, “You need to leave me.”

“Like hell,” Tony replies through gritted teeth and lowers them to the muddy ground. “We just … need to sit for a minute. That’s all. We’re gonna be fine, Terminator.”

“The wound’s reopened,” Bucky says, sagging back against the base of a tree. His hair is plastered to his forehead from the rain and he looks so goddamn _young._ “’M not gonna make it.”

“Now you’re just being pessimistic.” Tony tries to joke, but his voice cracks in the middle of the words.

Bucky smiles at him. “We’re realists, Tony. You can cut the bullshit.”

Tony shrugs. “Still not leaving you. Steve will kill me.”

“Steve will understand,” Bucky fires back.

Yeah, right. Tony lets an arched eyebrow convey what he thinks about that gross lie. Bucky huffs. “Steve will understand _eventually.”_

“Okay, how about this. I like you. I don’t want you to die. I’m not leaving you alone in the middle of the fucking jungle to bleed out. I don’t care if this is war. You’re my fucking friend. I don’t leave my friends.”

A radio crackles somewhere in the jungle. Bucky glances at him, desperate. “Tony…”

Tony cocks his gun and stands. Leaves rustle to his right, loud above even the steady pulse of the rain, and Tony aims. A soldier steps into their little clearing and freezes. Tony fires before he can raise his weapon. Once, twice. He goes down, gurgling from the bullet in his throat, and, after a moment of thrashing, lies still.

Tony lets out the shaky breath he was holding and turns back to Bucky. “That definitely gave away our position. We need to move.”

Bucky opens his mouth to protest and Tony silences him with a glare. “I am not leaving you. So either I sit here and die with you if that’s what you want or you get the hell up.”

“I hate you,” Bucky mutters, but let’s Tony pull him to his feet.

“Yeah, yeah. You’ll be singing my praises when this is all over, just wait. Tony Stark totally saved my ass _twice_ in the span of—”

_Crack._

He jerks, words dying in his throat, as a bullet tears into his leg, right below his knee. It takes a moment for the pain to set in, enough time for him to think, almost detached, _Oh. I’ve been shot._

And then he’s pitching forward, collapsing to the earth as white hot agony lights his nerves on fire. He’s dimly aware of Bucky falling with him, catching himself on his metal arm, and grabbing the gun. He fires into the trees—three quick shots—and a soldier staggers out a moment later, collapsing at the edge of the clearing—his rifle sliding away from his limp fingers.

Tony claws at the pain, trying to shove it down, _away,_ but it’s biting, insistent. _Fuck._ He’s been _shot._ As if this day couldn’t get any worse.

“Tony…” Bucky is gasping, half crawling over to him. “Fuck … I should have seen him.”

“Not your fault,” he murmurs and tells himself to stop being a baby about this. He’s been shot before. Maybe. He’s definitely been blown up before. And nearly suffocated in his own suit. And crushed in the ocean by his own fucking house.

He’s not allowed to lie here and weep like a fucking coward. They have places to be, people to avoid, whatever. He needs to sit up. _Now._ He manages it with a loud groan. His blood is pooling into the muddy ground and he’s pretty sure his knee is fucked. The bullet went straight through, at least. Thank God for small miracles.

“So …” he says, glancing over at where Bucky has collapsed next to him. “We’re fucked.”

Bucky laughs brokenly into the mud. “Y-yeah.”

“We’re goddamn superheros, Barnes. We should be better than this.”

_Take off the suit and what are you?_

“We’re people, Tony,” Bucky replies. “And we’re exhausted. They have bombs and guns and armor. We were fucked from the start.”

Yeah. It’s not a fun feeling.

And he definitely never thought he would die in a fucking jungle. Life is full of surprises.

“They’re coming,” Bucky says suddenly, not even bothering to lift his head. He’s probably clinging to consciousness by a thread. “At least four.”

Tony reaches for the gun. If they’re going down, he at least wants to take one or two of these fuckers with them.

“Tell me when to shoot,” he says to Bucky.

Bucky closes his eyes, listening. “On your ten o’clock.” Tony twists his body to aim, staring into the darkened shadows for any signs of movement. “ _Now.”_

He fires until the gun clicks empty. A sound like a body hitting the earth echoes, leaving cracking beneath the weight, and then the three remaining soldiers burst through the trees. Tony stares up the barrel of the rifle and hopes that they at least make it quick.

He’s closing his eyes, ready to welcome death with something like open arms, when Steve Rogers tears out of the jungle like some kind of avenging angel. He hits the first soldier at full speed, throwing him off balance, and the bullet that was meant for Tony’s head embeds in a tree behind him instead.

Tony opens his eyes, watching in stunned silence, as Steve breaks the soldier’s neck with a vicious twist of his arm. His expression is fierce, angrier than Tony has ever seen—even in that Siberian bunker—and _this,_ he realizes, is Steve Rogers’ dark side.

It’s comforting, in a twisted, horrifying kind of way.

Steve keeps moving, dodging a shot from the second soldier, and breaks the man’s knee with a well-aimed kick. The man goes down with a scream and Steve either kills him or knocks him unconscious with another blow to the face. The final soldier is backing up, rifle aimed, but Steve is faster, slamming him up against a tree and breaking his neck with his own goddamn gun.

The soldier’s body drops to the earth with a wet squelch of mud and Steve is already moving, crashing to his knees by Bucky’s side.

Close up, Tony can see blood staining his clothes, vicious burns down the side of his face and neck. He’s been shot at least twice, it looks like—shoulder and side—but he hardly seems to be feeling the wounds.

“Bucky,” he’s saying and then he glances down at the blood-soaked bandage and whispers a terrified, “oh God.”

Bucky has left the realm of consciousness at last and he’s limp in Steve’s arms. “Buck,” Steve says—raw panic so thick in his voice that Tony winces from the force of it. “C’mon, buddy, don’t do this to me.”

Tony turns at the sound of rustling leaves, but it’s just Sam, trailing after Steve at a limping run. He pauses in the middle of the clearing, glancing at the bodies, Steve cradling Bucky, and finally Tony sitting in an ever-widening pool of blood.

“Hey, man,” Tony says, aiming for casual though it mostly comes out in an awkward, pained croak.

Fuck, he would really like to pass out, too. Bucky definitely has the right idea.

“Hey,” Sam says, crouching next to him. He eyes the wound, squinting in the dark. The rain has finally stopped, thank God, and moonlight has penetrated a little of the thick canopy, letting Tony see all the hard lines of his grim expression. “That looks bad.”

“Feels bad, too.”

Sam gets back up, darting over to the fallen soldiers. He rifles around in their pockets and returns with what looks like gauze and cotton pads.

“Emergency kits,” he explains. “Can’t really sterilize anything, but this should help slow the bleeding a little.”

He winds the gauze tight around Tony’s leg. It hurts like fucking hell, but Tony manages to bite back everything except a frustrated, “ _Ow.”_

Sam shoots him an unimpressed look and ties off the makeshift bandage.

Steve has apparently given up on trying to get Bucky to regain consciousness and is standing, Bucky cradled in his arms. It’s ridiculous, how small Bucky looks like that—head resting against Steve’s chest and limbs akimbo. It would be almost sweet if it weren’t for all the blood, mud, and you know, _dying._

“We have to keep moving,” Steve says and gives Tony an assessing glance. “Can you walk?”

“Thank you for your concern,” Tony grumbles, trailing off into a groan when Sam hauls him upright. “And I’m gonna have to, aren’t I?”

“Lean on me,” Sam says, slinging his rifle across his back and wrapping a steadying arm around Tony’s waist. “Just not too much.”

Right, because Sam is pretty much bleeding all over the place, too. God, they are still so fucked.

Nevertheless, he lets Sam lead him, following Steve into the jungle. Each step is fucking _agony_ and Tony is so done with all of this.

Ross, he hopes furiously, will burn in hell with them, at least.

 

________________

 

He was almost getting his hopes up, the further they walked without dying, but nope. They’re totally fucked.

They’ve finally made it out of the jungle and there’s a whole fucking _line_ of soldiers waiting for them, rifles raised. Steve stiffens, clutching Bucky closer to his chest.

“Put down your weapons and get on the ground,” the leader commands.

Right. Good old-fashioned execution, then. Unless Ross has decided to take the opportunity to make examples of them after bombing them all to high heaven didn’t work. Sam takes the rifle off his back and drops it into the mud, but Steve—goddamn Steve Rogers—just raises his chin in open defiance.

“No,” he says, voice steady.

His eyes are calm in his filthy, blood-coated face, daring the soldiers to fire. Steve Rogers is going to die on his feet. Tony isn’t sure when to hate him or be in awe of him, but that’s really nothing new.

The leader raises his rifle higher, aimed dead center at Steve’s chest. “Final warning.”

Steve says nothing, but his stillness, his refusal, speaks volumes. Sam hefts him a little straighter, no doubt inspired or something, and Tony finds himself going along with it, pulling his shoulders back as much as he can.

At least he’s not dying alone.

Except the leader’s gaze is shifting, glancing at something behind them. And really? Do they get another miracle? That seems like pushing it, but.

But a fucking group of women are emerging from the trees at all sides. They’re decked out in full battle gear, carrying mean-looking spears, and the war paint on their faces gleams in the silver light. They look ethereal, like something out of a film, and Tony wonders if the pain is making him hallucinate.

Definitely wouldn’t be the first time.

“Enough,” one of the women says, weapon aimed at the team leader’s head. Her voice is calm, authoritative. “These men are under the protection of Wakanda.”

“They’re internationally wanted criminals,” Leader argues without lowering his weapons. “We have orders.”

“As do we,” the woman replies. “And as you can see, you are outnumbered.”

“Executing American soldiers is an act of war,” Leader says.

The woman smiles at him, sharp. “So is burning a village of innocents. Stand down and we will let you leave. Resist and you will be dealt with. It is your choice.”

God, Tony might be in love.

Leader glances back at his men, then around to the warriors, before reluctantly lowering his gun.

“Report back to your government,” the woman continues. “Tell them that Wakanda has granted asylum to these men and we know what you have done here. You will be held accountable.”

“As will you,” Leader replies, tinged with fury, but he signals for his men to retreat.

The woman says something in a language that Tony doesn’t understand and several women break ranks, following the soldiers into the jungle – no doubt to make sure they actually leave. She gives another set of orders and one of her fellow warriors pulls out a radio—hopefully to call for some kind of medical support.

Medical support would be _great._

“I am Okoye,” she says, switching back to English and stepping closer to Steve. “I lead His Majesty’s guard. My apologies that we could not reach you sooner.”

Steve shakes his head. “I’m just glad you’re here now. There’s two more of us…”

“We have already retrieved your friends. They are being airlifted to our medical facility. As you soon will be, as well,” Okoye says, glancing at Bucky.

“Thank you,” Steve says, voice thick with exhaustion and gratitude. “Thank you so much.”

An airship of some kind whirs overhead, landing in the large open field behind them. Tony sags in relief as medics and stretchers climb off. Bucky is loaded in the first one and Tony gets put in the second. As they settle him in the chopper, one of the medics takes out a syringe.

“Oh thank god,” Tony mutters.

They inject the drug into his arm and merciful darkness rushes in, taking the pulsing, persistent _pain_ away at last.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is so much talking in this, oh my God. I'm sorry. But everyone had a lot to say and I figure everyone can use a break after the last chapter, right? Either way, I hope you enjoy. 
> 
> Only one more chapter to go. :) Thanks to everyone who's stuck around this far. x

You wouldn’t purposely hurt anyone,

but keep describing all the ways that you would.

List all the things that never happened,

and see if you can suck clean the edges of what did.

 

―  **Catie Rosemurgy**

________________

 

**_From the journals of James Barnes, 2017:_ **

_Do you remember Indonesia two months back? Running with rescue crews after that tsunami? I asked you if we could age and you said we weren’t meant to get old and grey. That you didn’t think we ever were. And maybe you’re right. You would have died young, back in the 40s, with all those illnesses you were battling, and I still wonder if I was meant to die in the war._

_Sometimes, I feel like we’re ghosts restlessly wandering the earth—unable to let go after the violence of our deaths._

_But I still dream of it: growing old with you. We could now. We wouldn’t have to get married and buy houses next to each other and cheat on our wives in order to be together without people getting suspicious. I could marry you tomorrow in twenty-one countries and we could buy a house in the middle of nowhere and settle down, just the two of us. We’d probably be bored within a week, but the thought of it is nice._

_Marriage, family—I know you wanted that once. And I know that dream has passed, belongs to the people we were long ago, but some days the thought of centuries ahead of us terrifies me. We’ve lived too long and not nearly enough at the same time. At least we’re not, to my knowledge, completely immortal._

_That’s comforting, knowing we can die. I’m not saying that I want to—not any time soon. I didn’t blow my brains out in Bucharest after getting all those fucking memories back and I’m not about to do it now._

_But it’s good to know that the option is there, if those centuries ever get to be too much._

________________

**BUCKY**

 

He wakes slowly, in pained starts and stops, blinking his eyes until a white ceiling forms above him. Panic claws up his throat, but it’s a bed, not a metal table beneath him, and when he manages to turn his head he sees mountains and riot of green beyond the expansive glass windows.

Wakanda?

Did they make it? He swallows around his dry throat and tries to remember. It comes in flashes: Narus on fire, Tony, mud and bloodstained, holding a gun, Steve running into towering flames…

_Steve._

He tries to sit up, but a jolt of agony hits him hard enough to knock the air from his lungs, pressing him back into the mattress. Fuck, the jeep. The jeep blew up and he…

He puts a shaking hand over his stomach. Beneath the thin layer of the hospital gown he can feel the rough pull of stitches, skin slowly knitting itself back together. There’s an IV in his flesh hand and a cannula in his nose that he longs to rip out, but he tells himself to take it slow. He isn’t the Asset anymore; this isn’t HYDRA—none of this is designed to hurt or trap him.

There’s also a weight he can feel on the bed, something else touching his side through the blanket draped over his legs. He frowns and struggles to turn his head, searching with his mental hand. He bumps into what feels like a person and when he finally manages to shift enough, a helpless smile tugs at his mouth.

Steve—in a chair next to the bed, slumped forward so that almost his entire upper half is on the mattress, fast asleep.

The last vestiges of Bucky’s terror fade away. Steve is here and he’s been bandaged up, by the looks of it—taken care of. That means they must be safe, wherever they are. He’s loathe to wake Steve, but his throat is starting to feel like it’s on fire so he carefully cards his metal fingers through Steve’s dark hair.

Steve jerks upright with a cut off gasp and Bucky fights down a snort of amusement. Steve’s also dressed in what looks like hospital robes, which means he escaped whatever room they put him in to sleep in a tiny chair by Bucky’s bedside.

Idiot.

Steve’s gaze lands on his face and immediately softens in a way that still warms Bucky’s blood. “Hey,” he says, reaching out his hand to brush Bucky’s cheek. “You’re awake.”

Bucky rolls his eyes at the obviousness of that statement and tries to respond, but his throat is too dry to form any words. Fortunately, Steve is practically fluent in his body language, so he understands when Bucky flaps a hand at his neck.

“Water, right. Hold on.”

He gets up and walks over to a nearby counter where Bucky can see a pitcher of water sitting. He shifts again, looking around a bit more now that his head is clearing. The equipment looks beyond state of the art—more advanced than anything he’s ever encountered before—and the whole room is spotless. There’s a scan of his body reflected on a transparent screen not far from the bed—red outlining the edges of his wound—and he winces when he realizes how big it was.

Fuck. He nearly got cut in _half._

The chair creaks slightly as Steve sits down again. He helps Bucky drink with a hand to the back of his head. Bucky drains the whole cup and sags back against the pillows. Steve, the mother hen, pulls his blankets up higher, tucking him in.

“Thanks,” Bucky croaks.

Steve sighs and takes his hand, threading their fingers together. “I really want to punch you right now, but you look too pathetic. So just … a fair warning for when you get out.”

Well. That isn’t exactly unexpected, but. “They dropped a fucking _bomb,_ Steve. I…”

“Your heart stopped,” Steve cuts in, squeezing his hand tighter. “Twice.”

Bucky’s words die in his throat. _Shit._

“I can’t lose you again, jerk,” Steve continues, voice breaking. “Do you understand that? I _can’t._ ”

Steve looks ready to cry, shoulders hunched, and Bucky aches to reassure him, but he’s never believed in empty, pointless promises. “We’re not immortal, Steve,” he murmurs, rubbing his thumb across the back of Steve’s hand. “I won’t promise you something I can’t keep. You know that.”

Steve wipes his eyes and manages a wan smile. “I know. Just wish you wouldn’t scare me so badly all the time, asshole.” The smile slips and Bucky knows what’s coming next because Steve Rogers is nothing if not predictable. “And I’m sorry that I left—”

“Shut up,” Bucky cuts him off, irritation creeping in. “I’m not your fucking damsel, Steve Rogers, and I never have been. Stop acting like you need to save me all the time. I can fucking take care of myself.”

The pain in his stomach flares, taking some of the weight out of his declaration when he ends up huddled against the bed, trying to breathe through the worst of it, but at the least the guilty look has vanished from Steve’s face.

“I know that, too,” Steve says. “I’m sorry. I should call for the nurse. They have some tranquilizers that work on you and me so…”

Bucky shakes his head. “No drugs. I’ll be fine.”

Steve frowns at him, eyebrows furrowed in his Captain expression. “Bucky…”

“No drugs,” Bucky insists. The pain is already fading back to a dull, persistent ache, and he’s dealt with far worse than this.

Steve sighs in surrender. “Fine.”

Bucky eyes him, taking in the healing burns on the side of his face and the exhausted bags under his eyes. “And shouldn’t you be in a bed somewhere, punk?”

Steve shrugs. “I’m fine. I’d rather be here.”

God, this stubborn moron is going to be the death of him someday.

Bucky shifts to the side, pressing himself against the railing, and lifts the blanket. “Get in here, then.”

Steve eyes the narrow bed dubiously, but Bucky already knows they’ll fit. They shared a sleeping roll smaller than this during the war and they managed. “I don’t want to aggravate…”

“Get the fuck in.”

Steve laughs and obeys with a roll of his eyes. It’s a tight squeeze and Bucky has to hide a wince when Steve accidentally jostles his wound, but they _do_ fit, like he predicted, and having Steve’s warm weight pressed up against him makes being stuck in a hospital a thousand times easier. Steve kisses his temple and pulls the blanket over them both, tangling their legs together.

“We’re in Wakanda?” Bucky asks once they’ve settled.

Steve nods. “Yeah. Got picked up by the king’s personal guard three miles from the border. They’re pretty badass. You should have seen them stand off against the special ops forces.”

“And the others?”

“Are okay. Clint hasn’t woken up yet—got hurt protecting Natasha. Nat’s sitting vigil, though, like a terrifying guard dog, and they say he’ll make a full recovery.”

Bucky snorts at the mental image of Natasha perched by Clint’s bedside, twirling a knife. “What about Nat?”

“She’s pretty banged up herself, still. Got shot a couple times, but she’s on her feet, more or less. Sam’s okay—just minor injuries, but they’re keeping him for observation for another day. You’ve been out for seventy-two hours, by the way.”

Bucky frowns at that. He fucking hates losing so much time. Steve runs soothing fingers through his hair, reading his mind as usual. “It’s fine. You didn’t really miss anything, just a lot of doctors running around. Tony’s still confined to a bed, but he’s awake and coherent enough to be making a nuisance of himself so I imagine he’ll be fine.”  

It unknots something in his chest, knowing that everyone is safe. For once, it seems they’ve caught a break.

“Thank god,” he mumbles. “We made it.”

“Just,” Steve says, but he’s smiling. “I’m still thinking about punching you in the face.”

“You’re the fucking idiot who ran into a burning village. And you don’t want to do that.” His eyelids are starting to feel heavy again and his wound _aches,_ but he tips his head to rest against Steve’s.

“Why is that?” Steve asks, amusement coloring his voice.

“Because we’re overdo for some spectacular reunion sex and that would just ruin it.”

Steve laughs. “And don’t forget ‘thank god we’re alive’ sex.”

Bucky starts to laugh, but fiery pain immediately radiates from his stomach. “God, don’t make me fucking laugh, bastard.”

“Serves you right,” Steve says, but he shifts to peer down at Bucky’s torso, as though he can see the wound through the layers of blankets, clothes, and bandages.

“I’m fine,” Bucky huffs in exasperation, and he is. Or closer to it than he’s been in a while anyway.

They made it. They’re safe. They can rest, _heal,_ breathe—it’s more than he thought they’d get. It’s enough.

“Get some more sleep,” Steve murmurs, wrapping a careful arm around him. “I’ll be here.”

It helps, that simple promise—staves off some of the anxiety of the beeping machines and the various tubes stuck in him. He’s safe and Steve is here and they’ve won another battle. All the rest can wait.

Bucky sinks into Steve’s warmth and gives in to the insistent pull of sleep.

 

________________

 

When he resurfaces again, Steve is fast asleep—face pressed into his neck, arm draped across his chest—and the king of Wakanda is standing in the doorway. Bucky tries to sit up straighter without jostling Steve, but only ends up aggravating his wound and nearly getting caught in the breathing tube still attached to his nose. T’Challa, at least, smiles in what Bucky thinks his amusement.

“Your Majesty, I…”

“My apologies for disturbing you,” T’Challa says, entering the room. He moves with the same lethal grace as he does in costume—a warrior’s light steps coupled with the assurance of royalty. But his face is kind—different from the grim determination Bucky vaguely remembers in Berlin.

“It’s fine,” he replies half a second too late.

How does one talk to royalty? Especially royalty that once wanted him dead and has now saved his life.

Steve is better at situations like this, but he remains dead to the world—burrowed in close to Bucky’s side. They probably look ridiculous, jammed into this tiny bed, but T’Challa isn’t commenting on that or how compromising their situation is. Bucky is still getting used to a future where people generally don’t care about him and Steve being together.

“I merely wanted to check on your condition,” T’Challa says. “It is good to see you are improving.”

“Thank you.” Bucky swallows, buries his fingers in Steve’s hair like an anchor. “Thank you for all of this.”

T’Challa dips his head in acknowledgement. “You and my father were both victims. I am glad that I can at least help one of you find peace.”

Bucky has no idea how to reply to the heartfelt honesty in that statement—sincerity from a stranger, from a _king,_ from a man whose world he also carved a hole in, inadvertently or not. In the world he is used to, strangers are not kind—those that have been wronged even less so. But first there was Tony, granting him forgiveness with a timorous smile and a wave of his hand, and now there is T’Challa.

Maybe he’s finally found a softer world.

“Thank you,” he repeats, helplessly. Though he can’t resist a warning, because he also knows what he is worth and what men like Ross will do to get him back. “They’ll come for us,” he adds. “One day. Eventually.”

T’Challa smiles again and this time it is as sharp as the claws he fights so easily with. “Then let them try. They risk war by doing so.”

“You would go to war for us?” Bucky blurts in disbelief. Surely they aren’t worth that much—not broken and battered as they are now, the superheroes among them stripped of their mantles and stuffed full of shadows and still-healing wounds.

T’Challa put his hands in his pockets, somehow managing to make the casual gesture look regal. “It is the right thing to do,” he says as if it’s that simple. Perhaps, Bucky thinks with no small measure of incredulity, it _is._ “Wakanda wanted unity and cooperation when we proposed the Accords. But our years in isolation made us blind, in some ways, to the machinations of others. We failed to see Ross for the snake that he was and to realize the lengths he and others would travel to achieve their own goals. We owe you all for this failure and that is why you are here. No men should be hunted or tortured like animals.”

Bucky swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. So this is what it feels like to have powerful allies. _Good_ allies, beyond the strange little family the Avengers have made for themselves. It’s a good feeling, a relief. He and Steve and the others can stand on their own—but it’s nice to know there is someone willing to protect them.

“Thank you,” he says for a third time, feeling like an idiot, but T’Challa simply smiles again.

“You are welcome. We can talk more at a later time.” He glances at Steve. “I am sorry to have disturbed you. Get some rest. I will inform the others of your improved condition.”

“When can we see them?” Bucky asks.

“I will arrange to have a wheelchair brought to you tomorrow,” T’Challa replies. “They are in rooms along this hallway so visiting should not be too strenuous.”

“I’ll be fine,” Bucky says automatically.

T’Challa nods in agreement, which is miles better than Steve’s normal response to that statement. “I have no doubt, Sergeant. You have already made a remarkable recovery. Rest well.”

He leaves as quietly as he appeared and Bucky slumps back onto the bed, trying to process what just happened.

“He’s good, isn’t he?” Steve says suddenly—not sounding sleepy at all.

Bucky elbows him gently in reproach. “And how much of that did you hear?”

Steve opens his eyes. “Enough. I didn’t want to interrupt. You two were having such a nice moment.”

“Punk,” Bucky huffs, exasperated and fond in equal measure—his default around Steve. “But you’re right. He’s … not what I expected.”

“I think we’ll actually be safe here,” Steve says, sounding a little awed.

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees.

Safe. Truly, completely _safe._ What a novel thought.

 

________________

 

**TONY**

So his knee still hurts like an absolute bitch, but the painkillers they have him on are decent and he’s surrounded by completely unique, almost mind-boggling technology, so overall he’s good. He just wishes that the medical staff would let him out of this damn bed. He’s been stuck in here for three days and while the view is certainly impressive, he’s _bored._

Beyond bored.

And he wants to see the others, instead of just being given daily updates by a third party. Which is why he’s currently manoeuvring himself down the hall in a stolen wheelchair at three in the morning. They’re probably going to kill him when they found out he’s detached his IV and disabled all of the monitors, but it’s worth it for an hour or so of freedom.

He finds Bucky’s room first—the one right next door to his—and heads inside. The doors are motion sensor, sliding opening automatically like something out of Star Trek, and God he can’t wait until he can actually walk around and properly take this all in.

Bucky is asleep in the bed, but Steve is awake and reading in a chair, dressed in loose-fitting hospital scrubs with his socked feet resting against Bucky’s leg. It’s sickeningly domestic and Tony almost beats a hasty retreat, but Steve is looking up at him before he can back out the door.

“Tony.” He sounds a little surprised to see him, which c’mon—Bucky is his friend now, somehow, and he’s going to be concerned about his friends.

“Hi,” Tony says and forces himself to wheel closer. There’s an awkward moment of silence while he pulls up next to Steve’s chair. “How’s he doing?”

He looks okay, almost peaceful. The wounds on his face are nearly gone and he’s practically drowning in blankets and a bright blue hospital gown. From what Tony can make out on the various monitors around the room, his vitals are steady, too.

“Okay,” Steve says, expression openly fond. “He’s healing well. Should be able to move around some time in the next day or so.” He shifts to face Tony, arching an eyebrow. “Are _you_ supposed to be moving around?”

“No,” Tony replies blithely. He expects disapproval but Steve just gives him an amused smirk.

Probably because Tony would bet money on the fact that he snuck in here as soon as he was marginally mobile.

Steve looks ready to say more, but Bucky’s voice, hoarse from sleep, cuts him off, “Hey, Tony.”

Tony smiles automatically, relief increasing at seeing Bucky awake and coherent. “Hey, Terminator.”

Bucky blinks at him and frowns. “You shouldn’t be in here. The doctors said you’re still on bed rest.”

Tony waves a dismissive hand, smothering another smile. Honestly, _such_ a mother hen. It’s hilarious. “It’s fine. I’m fine. You should go back to sleep.”

“So should you,” Bucky mutters stubbornly, but his eyes are already fluttering closed again. Tony waits for his breathing to even out before turning back to Steve.

“You should, you know,” Steve says, wry.

“Probably,” Tony agrees. But he can’t sleep. He’s too restless, still on edge from everything that’s happened over the past twenty-four hours—the whole damn _month._ And it’s that leftover adrenaline in his veins that gives him the courage to add, “We still need to have that heart to heart.”

Steve’s eyebrows make an impressive jump for his hairline. “And you want to have it now?”

Tony shrugs and tells himself not to get defensive. “Yeah?”

Steve sighs, but he’s putting his book aside, getting to his feet. “Well, I guess I can’t sleep either so what the hell.”  
  
“See, great attitude,” Tony says and starts to back up his wheelchair. God, he hates these things. So cumbersome. Maybe he can talk the medical staff into letting him perform some upgrades until they graduate him to crutches.

Steve grabs the back of his chair, suddenly, stopping that train of thought in its tracks. “Here, let me.”

And then Steve Rogers is wheeling him towards the door like it’s nothing. Tony is too surprised to protest. Once the door slides closed behind them, Steve turns left, heading further down the hall.

“Where are you taking me?” Tony asks.

“Someplace quiet where we won’t get ambushed by well-meaning medical staff,” Steve replies, turning another corner.

God, Tony hates super soldier healing. Steve got shot twice and suffered third degree burns and he’s up and walking in three days like he wasn’t injured at all. The burns are faint scars, gone by tomorrow or the next day, and Tony is going to be stuck in a fucking wheelchair for weeks, _months,_ and have the mother of all scars on his leg to show for it.

So unfair.

Steve stops them in an alcove. It’s peaceful, tucked away, and full of various exotic plants—like a mini indoor garden. One wall is glass windows, just like the rest of the facility, and outside the moonlit jungle gleams silver.

Such a strange world they’ve landed in.

And this isn’t how he expected to do this—at three in the morning confined to a wheelchair—but as he takes in Steve’s messy hair, hospital scrubs, socked feet, and still-healing skin, he thinks it’s fitting. Neither of them have ever been more human than this, right now: stripped of all their armor and power, boiled down to their wounds and everything they’ve managed to survive.

Steve sits down next to him on one of the chairs, facing the windows, and says, sounding almost _nervous,_ “So…”

He’s going to let Tony lead, for some reason, and Tony wants to hate him for it. But sure, fine, he’ll jump into the fire first. Why not?

“So I’m still angry at you. I’ve fought with you for four years. Bled with you. Nearly died with you. Considered you a friend, in spite of our _multitude_ of differences, and you know what? You lied to me. Repeatedly. For _years._ You _knew._ You knew how my parents' deaths affected me, and you decided that someone had died and given you the right to keep the truth about it from me.”

“Tony…” Steve starts but Tony holds up a hand.

“Not done. So you keep that from me and that’s a great big stab in the back, but you don’t trust us with anything else, either. You decided a long time ago that I’m a narcissistic, self-absorbed asshole, which fine, I am, but I’m not fucking _heartless._ You could have told me about what Bucky meant to you. Could have sat down and _explained_ some of your reasoning instead of running off guns blazing. You’re the one who drew the battle lines in the sand. Not me.”

“Really?” Steve snaps and when Tony looks up at him, his eyes are blazing. “ _I_ did? You’re the one who made the decision about the Accords before even speaking to us about it. You decided that was best for the team and then you went after us when we didn’t agree with you. You were so busy trying to atone for your own mistakes that you didn’t see what was right in front you! They locked up Wanda, a _kid,_ in a high-security prison, and you didn’t bat an eye. You were the one who was deciding what was best for us.”

“You broke the law!” Tony half yells, spinning his wheelchair to face Steve fully. “That wasn’t on me.”

“Like you give a damn about the law,” Steve fires back. “You never have before. I watched the footage. The government asked you to hand over the Iron Man suit and you told them to go fuck themselves. You didn’t tell Ross about Siberia. You’re afraid, you want regulation, but still when it suits _you._ You thought you could control it, control us, but it spiraled out of control like it always does. The Accords was just a way for you to shift responsibility for that onto something else.”  

Tony opens his mouth to keep yelling, but _fuck,_ Steve is right and this isn’t helping anything. Shit, he’s going to have to be a responsible adult again, isn’t he?

“You’re right,” he forces out and wipes a tired hand across his face. Steve is looking at him, surprised, and when Tony smiles at him it’s bitter. “What? Didn’t think I was capable of looking past my own ego?”

“Usually, yes,” Steve admits with a wry smile of his own.

Tony waves a hand. “I’m learning. Blame your better half.” He sighs and twists the fabric of his hospital gown in his fingers. “But you’re right. I’m not like you. I’m not a soldier. I’m not used to war, to accepting sacrifices as a necessity. I try to make things better, try to control them, and they back fire every time. And people die. Ultron was on me. Afghanistan was on me. AIM was on me. The massive shitstorm that was the Stark Expo seven years ago was on me. And my father … my name has _never_ been clean, Rogers, in spite of your shining admiration of the asshole that was Howard Stark.”

“I…”

“Not done,” Tony cuts in again, though he can’t fight the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth now. “The point is, I wanted oversight because I thought it would keep me from fucking up again. We _are_ dangerous, Steve, you can’t refute that. We have blood on our hands and some of it was because of our own mistakes. But I shouldn’t have jumped on the first thing that came along. Shouldn’t have trusted Ross. I could see what he wanted, what he was going to use us for, but I convinced myself I didn’t care. That this would stop something worse down the line and that _is_ on me. So … I’m sorry, okay? I am. I didn’t want things to end the way they did. I was selfish. And I’m sorry.”

And he’s already apologized to Bucky, but he thinks he should also make this apology to Steve. He knows how terrifying it is, battling someone who wants to hurt what you love, and that’s the worst of it. The deepest, bloodiest wound.

If they can knit that closed…

“And I’m sorry about Siberia,” he adds. “I let anger get the better of me. I attacked someone who didn’t deserve it and that’s on me, too. He forgives me, because he’s a good person like that, but I hope you can, too.”

Steve sits there in silence for a moment and his expression is raw, disbelieving. Tony forces himself to wait, locks up everything else he wants to say. This first. Then they can get to all the rest.

“I do,” Steve says at last, sincere. “I forgive you, Tony. And I’m sorry, too. You’re right. I didn’t have the right to keep the truth about your parents from you. I was being a coward.”

“You’re forgiven,” Tony says, a little surprised at how easy it is.

But then again, he doesn’t want to hate Steve Rogers. He never has, not really. 

“There’s something else I learned, though, this past month,” he continues and this is easy, too. He can actually see the chance for a fresh start in front of them, within their reach. “I don’t know you. At all. All this time, you’re sitting there preaching about teamwork. About doing things _together._ And yet you didn’t trust us with anything. You hid behind these invisible, mile high walls, and then blamed us when we couldn’t get it together.”

Steve is silent beside him. Tony doesn’t know what that means, so he keeps talking—words pouring out like vomit, like poison finally being expunged. “And look, I don’t know much about teamwork or leadership. I’m shit at both, we all know that, but I’m pretty sure someone who is on a team and _leads_ a team and expects a team to work without ever giving something of themselves to it is a fucking hypocrite, right? I have that right, don’t I?”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees softly, head bowed. He looks tired, _young,_ and defeated. Tony feels like he’s seeing him for the first time.

Maybe he is.

“So if we’re going to go on from here, you have to open up a little. I grew up learning about a fucking perfect legend that could do no wrong. A bulletproof hero that never made mistakes, that saved everyone around him and blew up HYDRA bases like he was taking a stroll through the park, and I hated you because I couldn’t measure up to that ridiculous standard. But that was my father idolizing you. I don’t care about Captain America. He’s dead. I want to meet Steve Rogers and after four fucking years don’t you think it’s about damn time?”

He wheels forward until he’s stopped a foot away from Steve and holds out a hand. “Hi, I’m Tony Stark. Former billionaire, playboy philanthropist. Still a genius. Bit of an alcoholic, too, but who cares about that, right? My official SHIELD assessment said I was prone to compulsive behavior, self-destructive tendencies, and have textbook narcissism—all of which is probably true. I blame my dad for that. He was a real asshole—better at machines than people, which I also got from him. I want to help people, but usually I end up fucking things up. Royally. But I’m still trying. Like I said, I’m better with robots.”

He pauses, pretending to think. A smile is creeping into the corner of Steve’s mouth. “Let’s see, what else? Losing my parents really messed me up, too, even though I never got along with my dad. There were so many things I wish I had told him. That I love him, mostly, in spite of his overwhelming douchebaggery. Rhodey was my only friend in college, in spite of all the parties I went to.  I probably have PTSD from a combination of being tortured and held captive for three months in a cave in Afghanistan, flying a fucking nuclear missile through an alien wormhole and nearly dying in the process, and then having my house blown up with me inside it and nearly drowning in the ocean. I still get panic attacks now and then but I have it under control. Mostly. I’m trying. That should be the thing you take away from all this.”

It’s more vulnerable than he thinks he’s been with anyone who isn’t Pepper and he waits, breath trapped in his lungs, to see if it will work.

Steve reaches out and shakes his hand. “Hi,” he says, still fighting a smile. “I’m Steve Rogers. I was born, very ironically, on July 4th, 1918. My father died in World War I. I never knew him. I was raised by my Irish Catholic mother in one of the poorest neighborhoods in Brooklyn. She’s the one who taught me to stand up to bullies, which usually meant I got into fights I could never hope to win. I met my best friend when I was seven years old. I fell in love with him when I was fifteen. Of course, this was the 1930s, so that meant I could be arrested, carted off to an insane asylum, or beaten to death in a back alley if anyone ever found out about that.”

Steve runs a hand through his hair. Takes a deep breath. Tony manages to hold his tongue for once in his damn life, telling himself to appreciate Steve Rogers finally knocking gaping holes in those towering walls. “I spent two years on my knees, begging God to take away that love. But he didn’t. I gave up when I was seventeen and kissed Bucky Barnes in a back alley after art class. He kissed me back and it was one of the best moments of my life. My mom died a year later and Bucky moved in with me. Some days we could put food on the table, others we couldn’t. Winters were brutal. But I loved him and he loved me and I was happy. Then the war came. He was drafted in 1942. And I wanted to fight, too—wanted to do my part, like every other man my age.”

Steve smirks, wry. “And I was a five foot three shrimp with something to prove.”

Tony tries to picture the man in front of him as a tiny ball of anger and can’t, even though he’s seen the pictures.

Steve sighs, playing with the hem of his shirt. “I kept lying on the enlistment form, kept getting rejected. Then it was Bucky’s last night and we were supposed to take some girls out dancing. Had to keep up appearances, you know? We went to a science fair. Your father was there—showing off flying cars.”

His father told him about that expo once. “Yeah, that was a shit idea.”

Steve nods in agreement. “It was. Anyway, there was a recruitment center and I thought I’d try my luck one more time. You know this part, I’m sure.  It worked. I couldn’t tell Bucky. I … we went back to our apartment and my enlistment papers were in my back pocket even as I was promising him I would stay safe. He didn’t forgive me for that for a long time.” Another twist of the fabric. “Anyway, I turned big and ended up touring on a stage like a dancing monkey. And then I was on the front and they told me that Bucky’s unit had been captured, presumed dead, and no one was going to go look for them. I couldn’t let that stand. He was … this was the man I loved. I was going to at least bring back his body. So I went and I fought and I found him strapped to a goddamn table, tortured half to death, but we made it out and that was all that mattered. Only now they wanted me to take on HYDRA, lead a task force.”

Tony knows this part, too. It’s all over the Smithsonian exhibit, featured in every comic book and radio play: The Howling Commandos in all their patchwork glory. But he listens, because he promised to. Because perhaps for the first time, Steve Rogers is telling his story to someone, and that _matters._

“They wanted to give Bucky an honorable discharge, because he’d been tortured. But he turned them down and waded on to the front lines with me. I hated him and loved him for it. The war turned us all dark and monstrous and he slipped through my hands a little more each day. We didn’t know how to fit together anymore. I kept telling myself that it would be okay. We would fix it. We would win the damn war and go home to Brooklyn and figure out a future that didn’t end in tragedy.”

He sucks in a shaky breath, voice starting to crack. “Except there was a train and he … he _fell._ He died screaming while I watched. And it was like someone had reached inside of me and ripped out everything vital. My heart, my lungs—it was all gone. And I would have followed right after him, but I wanted revenge. I needed to avenge him. So then I was telling myself that I just had to live long enough to burn HYDRA to the ground. Then I could follow him. Then I could stop.”

Steve’s eyes are wet and too bright in the silver light. Tony wants to comfort him, but there are no words for tragedies like this. He knows that from experience. Steve, ever the brave one, just wipes at his face and carries on—wobbly and broken and determined.

“And I did. In the next month, I cut a path right up to Schmidt’s door. I killed him on the _Valkyrie_ and I didn’t feel a damn thing except relief. I … I could have gotten off the plane. Parachuted out or something. But I didn’t. I had never planned on coming back. When I hit the ice, I was ready. I was at _peace._  Only, I woke up. I _fucking woke up.”_ His voice cracks, but he pushes through it, stubborn in a way that's familiar. “And now everyone was dead and Bucky Barnes was a footnote in a history textbook: Captain Rogers’ childhood friend, heroically killed during the war. And you asked me why I never mentioned him - see, I was sure that we’d be forgotten, tragedies lost to time, but we weren’t and they’d decided our narrative already - had decades to hash it out, set it in stone. What good would saying, ‘but I _loved_ him’ do? He was still dead.”

Steve hunches his shoulders—the words pouring out of him now.

Like poison finally being expunged.

“At first I didn’t know what to do. I bought a bunch of sleeping pills. Took them all at once. I just … I hadn’t asked for any of this. I wanted to be _gone._ I wanted to be with him. That had been the _plan._ So I took three bottles worth of sleeping pills and I woke up the next day like nothing had happened. I didn’t try again after that. Couldn’t bring myself to stoop that low. And I knew Bucky’d never forgive me if I went out like that.”

Tony sucks in a sharp breath of his own. _Shit._ He never thought that would be something they shared. And sure he’d never actively tried to kill himself before, not like that, but he hadn’t exactly been trying to stay alive, either, especially in the immediate aftermath of his parents’ deaths.

“I still didn’t know what to do, though,” Steve continues. “Then fucking _aliens_ invaded and Fury wanted me to be Captain America and I thought that I could at least do that. Steve Rogers died on a train in Austria, or on a plane in the Artic, but Captain America - he didn’t feel any of that grief and heartbreak and fear. Captain America still knew how to fight. So I picked up the shield. And in the back of my mind I was thinking that between aliens and killer robots and people with superpowers, I was bound to end up dead eventually. It … it wasn’t living. And I know I should have said something, but. I didn’t know how. I’d never talked about Bucky with _anyone._ Now that he was gone, I didn’t even know where to start.”

The walls are crumbling and Tony can see all the blood, all the wounds etched just beneath healed over skin. It’s unsettling and gratifying and he has no idea what to do with any of it.

“It went on like that for two years. That half-life. Until I fought an assassin on a bridge and when his mask came off it was the man I loved, looking right through me. He didn't remember me but he was _alive._ And that was all I needed to wake up.”

Steve lets go of his shirt, the fabric twisted and rumpled. His eyes are still wet. “I failed him. Seventy years he was being tortured and broken by the people I had sworn to stop in his name. He insists on not blaming me, but I do. I failed him and I lost him and they tore him apart. He’s brave and so strong and I’m in awe of him every single day, but I can see the wounds - so deep they’ll probably never heal. And I can’t fail him again. I can’t lose him again. Please try to understand. He’s … he’s my true north. Even when I had nothing, I had him. And somehow, impossibly, fate granted me a second chance with him. And I know it’s selfish, _I_ was selfish, but I couldn’t give that up for anything. Not for Captain America or the Avengers. And certainly not for something like the Accords. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I should have, you’re right. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so quick to draw lines in the sand. Maybe we both should have been better. But I’m trying, too.”

Steve smiles again, softer than before. “Maybe that should be the thing you take away from all of this.”

Tony swallows. Steve’s walls are dust at his feet and he looks too pale, too young, too vulnerable sitting there with his fucking too bright eyes and his cheerful blue hospital scrubs and his bloody wounds on display. And Tony does understand. He thinks of Pepper, of Rhodey, of all the people who took pieces of his heart with them and the lengths he would go to protect them and he _gets it._  

Star-crossed lovers.

The silence stretches on as they gather themselves, and it’s heavy, but not awkward. That’s probably progress.

“You’re a fucking tragedy,” Tony says at last. “You have me beat.”

Steve laughs, wet, and wipes his eyes on his sleeve again.

“Thank you,” Tony continues, honest. “It’s nice to meet you. And look, there’s this team. I think we should try to keep it together. Who knows? Maybe we can even make it better, now that we’re not strangers anymore and we’re finally learning how to talk to each other.”

“Communication is key, isn’t it?” Steve quips.

“Something like that,” Tony replies. “And look. There are probably still going to be days when I want to punch you in your perfect teeth, but I meant what I said. I don’t want you gone. I want to keep trying.”

“I do, too,” Steve says, earnest.

“Then we start there. What do you say?” He holds his hand out again.

Steve reaches out and shakes it. And something sharp and painful and angry finally shakes loose in Tony’s chest.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my God, THIS IS IT. I can't believe I'm here. I never make it here. 
> 
> I have to say I’m proud of this one. It’s the longest story I’ve ever completed and it’s been a blast to write from start to finish. Thank you, everyone who went on this journey with me and offered encouragement along the way. 
> 
> Hopefully this is a satisfactory ending. I'll sit here and nervously chew my nails while you decide.

"Our love is a forest fire and we are the little things that live in the trees."

―  **Joey Comeau**

 

________________

 

  **TONY**

Wakanda is _awesome._ He still can’t get over the mindboggling technology and the views beyond the medical center are breathtaking: green mountains stretching on for miles, dotted by thundering waterfalls. And he’s glad for the rest, really, but it’s been two weeks and he’s starting to metaphorically climb the walls.

They’ve upgraded him to some very nice crutches and a fancier wheelchair so he can move around to his heart’s content, but there’s only so far to go. At least, for lack of other options, everyone has banded together. They moved Clint and Bucky into the same spacious room and it’s since been turned into an impromptu headquarters/hangout space.

So far, Clint has trashed Sam at cards about five times (Tony suspects rampant cheating), Bucky and Natasha keep having private conversations in Russian (totally making fun of everyone else, he’s sure of it), and Steve flits around, trying to spend time with everyone. Clint has plenty of bandages and new hearing aids he keeps grimacing and fiddling with, insisting they’re far more sensitive than his old ones. Bucky has almost completely healed—the gaping wound just a mess of scar tissue—and Natasha is more or less fine (no one pressures her for a more truthful assessment of health).

Tony hovers on the edge of all this and tries not to think too hard about Rhodey or Pepper or the big, uncertain future hovering in front of them.

But really, there’s only so many cards and chess games and bickering you can go through before you need to shape up and face reality. So here they are: all gathered in a stupid circle in the middle of the room like an alcoholics anonymous meeting.

They look ridiculous in their hospital scrubs and gauze—Tony still in a wheelchair and Clint perched on the end of his bed because technically he’s not supposed to leave it yet—but tension hangs in the air, stifling Tony’s urge to laugh.

“Okay,” Steve says, like an AA sponsor—voice gentle but authoritative, and Tony really should stop with this metaphor. “Now that we’re all conscious and off major pain medication—” Clint snorts. “-there’re some things we should probably discuss.”

Tony raises his hand. “Oooh, can I go first?”

He’s been practicing this speech for the last two days, trying to sound as responsible and adult as possible. Steve arches an eyebrow at him, but nods.

Right. He really wishes he could pace for this.

“So we can all agree that the Accords were a mistake and Ross is a giant dick we never should have listened to, but we still need measures in place. We still need oversight. We’re dangerous, all of us. Lagos, Sokovia, the city the Hulk tore up after we got our asses kicked by Ultron, Narus—all of that is blood on our hands.”

Everyone trades glances, and this is when he hates being in a room full of soldiers—they have great poker faces. He focuses on Steve for now. “I can’t think like you. I’m not a soldier. This isn’t always war. I can’t just accept the fact that people will die and there’s nothing we can do about it. We _can_ do something about this. We have to. Half the world already hates our guts. And Ross has proven just how far he’s willing to go to contain us. This isn’t a battle we can punch our way out of. Not anymore.”

Steve crosses his arms over his broad chest, but his face is open. He’s listening—that three am foundation laid between them holding for now. “What do you have in mind?”

“First, we vote about everything,” Tony proposes. “No more running off without communicating to each other, whether it’s about long lost lovers—” Bucky smirks at him and Steve flushes slightly. “—or pet AI projects. Every decision gets put before the team.”

“Sounds like a good idea to me,” Sam says while Natasha nods.

“All in favor say ‘aye’,” Clint declares from the bed with a grin. “Please tell me we’re voting like that.”

Bucky kicks Steve’s chair. “And everyone _listens_ to the vote. No running off into burning villages by themselves like an idiot.”

Steve holds up his hands in surrender, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Okay, okay, I promise. We vote and we listen to the vote.” He glances over at Tony. “Anything else?”

Well so far so good. Tony is getting cautiously optimistic about this. “If there is a lot dissent among the team or some, maybe even one, of us has major concerns we defer to someone else.”

“Who do you have in mind?” Natasha asks, cutting off the automatic protest Tony can see Steve about to unleash.

Thank God for Natasha.

“ _Not_ a giant douchebag,” he says with a pointed look at Steve. “I was thinking T’Challa. Since we’re hiding out in his country and all. We probably shouldn’t do anything to make it harder for him or Wakanda than it already is.”

He’s taken them by surprise, he can tell. Ha.

After a pregnant pause, Clint shrugs. “I like the guy. He saved our asses. Might as well.”

Natasha smirks. “All in favor?”

Tony fights down both an eye roll and a smile when everyone sarcastically raises their hands and says, “aye.”

“Though we should probably ask him first,” Steve adds. “Make the whole babysitting thing official.”

“Fine,” Tony agrees. This went … much better than expected. It’s amazing what tragedy, near death, and being globally wanted fugitives can do for team bonding. “We can go now. Meeting adjourned?”

Clint raps the end of his bed like he’s banging a gavel and that’s that.

 

________________

 

“You want me to lead your team?”

T’Challa doesn’t _sound_ upset - surprised, maybe, but it’s hard to tell. He’s got an almost unflappable grace woven through everything he says and does. Tony blames royal upbringing. That’s something you get training for, right?

“Not exactly,” Steve says, taking the lead because he’s better at diplomacy than Tony (by a _very_ small margin) and mainly he’s not bound to a fucking wheelchair and can look authoritative. “But you’ve been gracious enough to grant us asylum, your majesty, at great personal risk to your own country and we don’t want to do anything to put you in a more precarious position.”

“He means we don’t want to fuck this up,” Tony translates, ignoring the glare Steve sends him because he’s almost positive T’Challa smiled just then.

“So for now we’d like to defer to you before moving forward,” Steve continues smoothly. “About big decisions at least. We’re still … figuring out where to go from here.”

“After the lying low part is over and we’re all mobile again,” Tony adds.

“Ross will come for us eventually,” Steve says. “But that’s a problem for another day. The point is, your majesty, we want to do right by Wakanda. It’s the least we can offer, after everything you and your people have done for us.”

T’Challa inclines his head. “I would be honored, then, Captain. And perhaps there are some projects you can help with while you are recovering?”

Tony nods enthusiastically. Yes, God, he’s dying of boredom. He’ll build fucking _Legos_ as long as it’s something to do and he’s in proximity to a lab again. Next to him, he can sense the same desperate enthusiasm practically _radiating_ from Steve.

None of them are good at sitting still.

T’Challa actually _does_ smile, then, and taps a command onto the console at the side of the room. The most vibrant, detailed hologram Tony has ever seen springs to life in front of them, projecting a map of the region—Wakanda surrounded by South Sudan, Kenya, Uganda, and Ethiopia.

“As you are well aware,” T’Challa begins, “Wakanda is a unique country. We have maintained our isolation for thousands of years and unlike many of our neighbors, we have never been colonized. This has allowed us to decided our own identity. To shape our culture and our development free of outside influences. But my father was right. We have spent too long in the shadows and now, as the future of our world grows more and more uncertain, we are in need of allies. Countries that will stand beside us not just because we can offer them vibranium, countries that we can trust. But more than that, it is time for Wakanda to give back to the world. That was my father’s dream and I share it with him.”

T’Challa paces to the center of the room and the hologram projects jungle green across his face. “The aid mission to Lagos was just the beginning, a small experiment. I have bigger projects in mind, to help our neighbors. To build sustainable housing, roads, and bring an end to conflict. Stabilizing this region is the first step.”

He turns to face them and Tony instantly wants to sit up straighter in response to the weight of the look he’s giving them. “I would welcome your insight, Captain. I have followed your exploits over the past year. You have accumulated a great deal of experience in these areas.”

Steve rubs the back of his neck, flushing. “I don’t know how much help I’ll be, your majesty, but I’m happy to try.”

“And you, Stark,” T’Challa says. “I have also heard of your forays into clean energy and your skill as an engineer. Your help would be invaluable, as well.”

“Sure,” Tony replies immediately, thinking about all the blood still coating his hands. Maybe this will help wipe some of it clean. Maybe this will put the Merchant of Death to rest at last. Free of the suit, of the expectations and the fucking _war_ that always comes with Iron Man, maybe he can finally figure out how to build better than destroy.

Either way, he’s grateful for the chance.

“Excellent,” T’Challa says, smiling at them again. It makes him look younger. “We will also prepare for the eventuality of Secretary Ross. But for now, I have one more project I would appreciate your help with—this one much closer to home.”

He goes back to the console and the hologram vanishes. “I would like to build a new arm for Sergeant Barnes. As a further apology for my own mistake.”

“Definitely,” Tony chimes in, because he’s been thinking about this for awhile now. He’s a giver and with all his resources gone, a new arm seems like a small, simple thing he can do for his new friend. “The one he has is shit. You’re thinking vibranium, right?” 

“You blew off the better model,” Steve points out and Tony waves a hand.

“That one was shit, too. I mean, not _completely,_ but I can do better. I just need a lab and—”

“I have already taken the liberty of drawing up some designs,” T’Challa says and after another tap to the console, schematics are hovering in the center of the room.

Tony wheels forward, a little awestruck in spite of himself. “These are … not bad.”

They’re pretty fucking amazing, actually, but Tony has a little pride left, thank you. T’Challa shoots him an amused look.

“You are not the only genius here, Stark.”

“Ouch, burn.” He reaches out, tentative, but the hologram moves when he makes a spinning motion, as easily manipulated as the ones he designed. “Seriously, though, what the hell do you need me for?”

“To build it,” T’Challa says. “And make any further modifications that might be needed. You are still more experienced in this area than I am. Unfortunately, matters of state also mean that I am not able to devote the needed time to complete the project.” He glances at Steve. “All of this would only be with the sergeant’s approval, of course.” 

“He’ll give it,” Steve says, an affectionate smile pasted on his face. Lovesick idiot. “Trust me.”

Right, Bucky is a total nerd. He’ll probably be as excited about this as Tony is getting. “So, where’s your lab?”

________________

 

“A vibranium arm?” Bucky says the next day, looking between him and Steve with wide eyes. “Really?”

“Only if you want it, Buck,” Steve replies, gentle—careful in a way Tony is learning means he’s afraid of pressuring Bucky into a choice he doesn’t want to make.

Bucky raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Tony laughs harder than he has in months.

________________

 

Time passes—a steady stream, sometimes quicker than he anticipated. Two weeks bleeds into two months. They move from the medical center into a new compound, tucked away in Wakanda’s towering mountains—jungle on all sides and the sky brilliant above the sprawling gardens. It’s beautiful, _serene,_ if isolated, but they all understand.

Wakanda is still a country unused to strangers. Especially such dangerous ones.

He hobbles around on his crutches—the fiery pain in his leg fading to a dull, constant ache. The doctors tell him he might always walk with a limp; there is only so much even fabled Wakandan technology can repair.

He tells himself it’s an excuse to craft a wildly ostentatious cane and ignores the twinge—deep and raw, carved with a blunted knife—in his ribcage. It’s gone as quickly as it came.

He refuses to allow it to linger.

Three months in he googles Rhodey and Pepper, giving in to a stupid late-night, alcohol-fueled urge he’s never been good at resisting. Pepper held onto the company, good for her, and in spite of a sudden plunge in stock and the inevitable smearing of her reputation, she seems to be steering it back on course.

There’s a video of Rhodey, confined to a wheelchair and accepting a medal to go along with his honorable discharge from active service. Tony watches one minute of it before the screen starts to blur and he has to shut it off.

They’ll be okay. That’s another thing he tells himself. They’ll be okay and someday leaving them will hurt less.

He hopes it’ll be true, even as he suspects that’s the alcohol giving him delusions again.

He works on Bucky’s new arm to keep himself occupied. (And Bucky around technology is a beautiful thing to watch, a combination of a quick mind and childlike wonder Tony never gets sick of.) Steve hovers in the background during the various fittings—a protective mama bear Bucky teases relentlessly (and fondly).

Tony finds he doesn’t mind Steve’s presence as much as he used to.

Four months in Clint finally gets cleared completely and Tony is upgraded to a cane. Several members of the Dora Milaje become frequent visitors, drawn by Clint’s archery, Steve’s hand to hand skill, and Natasha’s general badassery.

(Tony suspects that when Natasha hangs out with them, they braid hair and talk about killing men. She's clearly enjoying having women around who are as badass as she is and they’re all terrifying.)

Sam sits in gardens a lot and seems to be enjoying life as a normal human again. Tony can’t really blame him. Sometimes he sits in the gardens, too, and they enjoy the quiet together. Other times they watch Steve get his ass handed to him by Okoye and laugh their heads off.

They eat dinner together every evening—like a proper little family—and Tony is learning how to talk to them again. Also learning the times he doesn’t need to talk at all. Some silences don’t need to be filled. Imagine that.

Five months in and he’s healing, he thinks. From Narus, from Siberia, and from all the fucking mess that came before. They all are. Barton laughed at a joke of his last night and if that’s not progress, he doesn’t know what is.

Ross still looms. The future is a dark cloud blotting the horizon, but they’re all stubbornly ignoring it for now.

They’ll deal with it when the fucking storm rolls in. Until then, he’s going to enjoy this almost … _peaceful_ existence they’ve managed to find and let it shore up the many dents in his rusting armor.

Until Ross comes calling or aliens decided to invade again, this is enough. It’s actually _more_ than he thought he’d ever find, in spite of everything he’s still missing. And he’s learned to take what he can get.

Grab it with both hands and never let go, come hell or fucking high water.

 

________________

 

**BUCKY**

He and Steve are given their own spacious room in the new compound—tastefully decorated and surrounded by riotous green.

Everything about Wakanda is so _vibrant._ It all still feels like a fucking dream.

Their first night free of the medical facility, Bucky takes Steve to bed for several spectacular, long overdue rounds of sex. After, blissed out and exhausted, they curl up on the too-soft sheets and Bucky lets Steve anchor him—the one constant through all these decades, from boys scrapping in back alleys to soldiers to whatever the hell they are now.

Together. That’s all that’s ever mattered to him.

“This bed is huge,” Bucky mutters and Steve laughs into his neck—hand hot against his bare hip. Bucky idly wonders if he has another round in him.

Maybe in a few minutes.

“Feels strange, doesn’t it?” Steve says. “I’m starting to think it always will.”

“Guess that happens when you live as many lives as we have,” Bucky replies, running his metal fingers through Steve’s sweaty hair.

Steve’s fingers move to his stomach, tracing over new scar tissue. “I’m just glad we made it.”

“You and me both, pal.”

“Don’t know how we’re gonna win this one, though,” Steve continues, brow furrowed.

Bucky doesn’t have any answers. The odds have been stacked against them before and they’ve survived, but he’s not arrogant enough to consider that a certainty. They both know how quickly and easily life can end—no matter how safe you feel, no matter how many times you made it out unscathed before.

He settles for tilting Steve’s chin up and kissing him, slow and deep. Steve responds in kind—beard scratchy and perfect against Bucky’s cheeks—and his hand drifts lower, dipping between Bucky’s legs.

Bucky hums into the kiss and loses track of anything that isn’t Steve.

 

________________

 

He’s still getting used to the new arm. It isn’t as loud as his old one—doesn’t creak and whir when he fights with it—and ten times lighter, as immaterial as Steve’s shield feels when he picks it up.

“It’s also ten times stronger,” Tony tells him, rapping the arm. “So be careful.”

He learns that the hard way when he nearly puts Steve through a wall sparring two days later. Tony laughs his stupid head off while Bucky trips over himself to apologize. Steve, the idiot, insists he’s fine and cheerfully goes off to find more things for Bucky to break.

Balance is tricky, too. He’s used to unconsciously compensating for a much heavier left side and so he spends two weeks crashing into things and tripping over his own feet like a newborn calf. It’s frustrating and humiliating, but ultimately he doesn’t care.

The words are gone and now the old arm. He finally feels completely purged of HYDRA.

He finally feels _clean._

________________

 

“So I have something for you,” Tony says one evening.

They’re walking through the gardens—a newly established nightly ritual. The doctors said Tony needs to stay mobile, strengthen his leg, and Bucky likes the fresh air and the riot of stars overhead. 

“Well it’s not exactly _for_ you, but it has to do with you. As in it’ll affect you, but only if you give me permission, which is why I’m asking before—”

Bucky elbows him gently, cutting off the babbling. “Spit it out, Stark.”

“The footage of them torturing you in New York,” Tony blurts. “I can get it.”

Bucky stops dead, feeling like Tony just dumped a bucket of ice water over him. “W-what?”

Tony turns to face him—a hand on his forearm to keep them both steady. His expression is serious, kind, and nervous all at once. “I was thinking we could leak it. Put people in that room with you. But it’s totally up to you, Terminator. Don’t know if this is dirty laundry you want to air.”

Bucky swallows around the sudden lump in his dry throat. “Would it help?”

He thinks of Ross—determined, impassive—and his own face in a museum. Two years a soldier and seventy an assassin. Who would the world side with? The man who has been dead for nearly eight decades or the one with thirty-four names, including the fucking president of the United States, written in brilliant red in his ledger?

War hero or murderer? Victim or monster?

Is there a choice? Is there a _difference?_ They are both him and not him and how can he possibly convey _that_ when he’s still figuring it out himself?

“I don’t know,” Tony says, squeezing his arm. “But it’ll definitely shake some people up.” He smiles, wry. “Trust me.”

“Do it, then,” Bucky says because giving himself time to think will only be giving the fear time to set in.

Tony hugs him. “You’re fucking brave, Terminator. Don’t forget that.”

Bucky buries his face in Tony’s neck and tries to believe that in spite of the tremors wracking his flesh hand.

He’s never felt brave a day in his life.

 

________________

 

Tony enlists T’Challa’s help with the leak.

“You are certain?” T’Challa asks Bucky before they begin and he forces himself to nod through the fear cutting his stomach to ribbons. Natasha squeezes his hand hard enough to bruise.

It almost seems too easy, extracting the footage—stored safely in what’s left of FRIDAY. Tony does something complicated-looking on the keyboard and a few minutes later he’s screaming on the screen.

Clint flinches, but doesn’t reach for the volume on his hearing aids. Sam swears, low and furious, while Natasha holds his hand and presses all along his side, tying him down to the earth.

Steve put his fist through a wall.

“Sorry,” he says as Tony cuts off the video—a strange mixture of sheepish and furious.

“It is understandable, Captain,” T’Challa replies, his own voice tight with anger. “And easily fixed.”

Bucky wants to run, sink through the floor—anything to get away from all the fucking _eyes_ staring at him.

“Ross is a dead man,” Sam says suddenly, hands clenched into fists.

“All in favor,” Clint adds with dark promise.

There’s a chorus of grim “ayes” and some of the terror lessens. Steve takes his other hand, laces their fingers together, and Bucky realizes this is what it means to be protected. He’s part of a team now, for the first time since the war.

It’s a good feeling, having people other than Steve willing to kill on his behalf.

 

________________

 

The footage hits like a bomb.

Within days it’s fucking _everywhere_ —on all the major news sites, websites, _everywhere._

The dialogue ping pongs between calls for Ross’ resignation and/or head—people furious at this clear violation of human rights by the American government—and calls for _his_ head—seemingly just as many people insisting that he’s a terrorist and a murderer and this is the _least_ he deserves.

Steve shuts everything off on the fifth day and forbids him from going on the internet and Bucky’s frayed nerves are grateful.

“Let it be,” Steve says, wrapping strong arms around his waist and kissing the top of his head. “It’ll take time.”

Yes, time for the public to reach a verdict—support or condemnation. He’s not sure he wants to know what the answer will be.

Either way, that’s a war to be waged later. Right now, he leans back into Steve and focuses on the air cycling through his lungs.

In and out. In and out. In and out.

 

  ________________

 

“So,” Steve says, six months after their arrival in Wakanda, “Happy anniversary.”

“It isn’t,” Bucky replies with a frown. “It was weeks ago. I think I was unconscious.”

Steve shrugs and turns on the radio in their room. Slow, soothing music filters through the speakers. The idiot has even lit candles. “We picked that date on a whim. This can be our new one.”

Bucky arches an eyebrow, but succumbs to Steve’s gentle tugging on the front of his t-shirt and allows himself to be led into the middle of the room. “We’re gonna lose track at this rate.”

“So?” Steve replies, putting a hand on Bucky’s waist and swaying them to the music. “It’s just a date. Maybe I wanted an excuse to dance with you, jerk.”

“Don’t have to wait until our fucking anniversary to do that, punk,” Bucky huffs as he threads his fingers through Steve’s.

Steve smiles at him. “Well maybe we could use something to celebrate.”

That much is true. While life in Wakanda has settled into an almost peaceful routine, it won’t last long with the war over their future still raging in earnest. Ross is going to get desperate soon and they’ll be back to fighting for their lives.

At least this time they’ll have one of the most powerful countries on earth backing them and hopefully a little more public good will than before. That should help even the odds a little.

“Remember when we used to do this in Brooklyn?” Steve asks.

“Yeah,” Bucky replies. He can see it easily: Steve, only as tall as his shoulder, and the floorboards creaky beneath their feet as they moved to slow songs trickling over the radio. “More space now.”

Steve glances around the cavernous room and laughs. “Yeah. And I can do this.” He suddenly wraps both arms around Bucky’s waist and lifts him clean off his feet.

Bucky kicks him in the shin. “Put me down, you jackass.”  

Steve’s laughter is bright and unhindered and Bucky soaks it in as he’s set lightly back on the ground. “I can pick you up, too, you know,” he grumbles to hide his own smile. “That’s not new information, pal.”

Steve smirks in reply and leads them through a few more turns around the room before cupping his face for a searing kiss. Bucky melts into it and when they come up for air, Steve’s expression is fierce.

“We’ve made it this far, Buck. We’ve survived HYDRA, a world war, and the Great Depression. If Ross thinks he’s going to be the one to kill us, he’s got a fucking rude awakening coming.”

Bucky smiles at him, heart warm. “Aww, Stevie, you say the nicest things.”

Steve rolls his eyes in spite of the smile tugging insistently at the corner of his mouth and Bucky kisses him, putting all the things he can’t say into it. Around them, the music continues to play—Kitty Kallen singing like a ghost from long, long ago.

 

________________

 

He sits with Tony late one night as a storm rolls in outside the expansive windows of their living room. Everyone else is asleep, but they linger—restless, unsettled. It’s the same hyperawareness that’s driven Bucky out of bed numerous times before and it seems Tony suffers it, too.

Tony twirls his cane in his fingers. “I think we’re going to be okay,” he says, cautious. Like he’s trying to get himself to believe the words.

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees because he wants to believe them, too. Wants them to be stronger than his nightmares and ghosts and whatever is coming for them down the line.  “I think you’re right.”

Thunder rumbles, rolling slowly overhead, and the sky opens up in its wake. Rain drums thick and heavy against the roof, runs in small rivers down the glass.

“We should keep telling each other that,” Tony murmurs, eyes on the unfolding storm. “When things get bad again.”

Bucky squeezes his shoulder with his new vibranium hand. “Okay.” It’s an easy agreement, in spite of the uncertainty of the future. “Okay.”

Tony smiles at him, quiet, and they watch, side by side, as the rain soaks the earth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks! 
> 
> I hope you’ve enjoyed my little story. I’m not sure what’s next, but there will (hopefully) be more to come. Until then, thank you all, from the bottom of my heart. You’re the absolute best. :) 
> 
> \- C xxx


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